Battle for Earth: The Hunted
by Baseplate
Summary: Sequel to Battle For Earth. After three brutal wars, Earthen Governments and the Irken Empire stand on opposite sides in the quest to control the world's natural resources. Promoted U.S. Ghostex: Delta 6 Lieutenant Dib Membrane and his new team have been sent to capture The Empress, AKA Jul Mik'hini, a former Irken intelligence Colonel and currently an operative of a secret group.
1. Prologue

"I will kill the Tallests of the Irken Empire. Destroy the control brains. I will bring down the entire planet of Irk. And then I will stand back and watch it all burn." - Colonel Jul Mik'hini, AKA "The Empress"

* * *

Prologue

**Earth City, U.S.A., Earth**

**2013**

Dib membrane dropped into sixth gear and studied the digital heads up display glowing in his windhsield: 116 mph and climbing.

The Corvette's short throw shifter felt warm, while the 505- horsepower LS7 engine roared its demand for more fuel and pinned him to the sport seat. Streetlight and shop windows blurred by in a kaleidoscope of reds, blues, and greens.

Taking his cue from the car, Dib jabbed his foot on the accelerator pedal, and the beast leapt forward across the rain slick pavement, the scent of burning rubber still wafting up into the black leather cockpit.

Just a few minutes ago he'd come off the mark in a massive burnout, reaching sixty miles per hour in just 3.7 seconds. For a few heartbeats he'd lost control, the rear tires hopping, the back end swinging out until the traction control system engaged.

He wasn't used to this. In fact, this was not him at all.

He tensed. Would he hit 120... 130 mph down this municipal street? Would he dare go 150 mph?

It was a Sunday night, 11:50 A.M., and there were still a fw other vehicles on the road, although the sidewalks looked clear of pedestrians.

How fast would his rage take him?

He kept a white knuckled grip on the steering wheel with both hands. There was no more shifting to do; it was pedal to the metal, and the future would unfold.

He flicked his gaze to the right and saw Smacky's door just a few feet away, both Corvettes neck and neck now, their Borla exhaust systems thundering as they raced up the four lane road.

Torque Smacky was just eighteen, the same age as Dib, and they were seniors in Hi Skool. They had never spoken to each other until Dib had rolled into the school parking lot with his Corvette. Dib had inherited the Vette from his uncle who'd passed away, and from that day on Torque had been challenging Dib to a street race, going so far as to follow him, harass him at every intersection, cut him off, and even show up on Dib's doorstep, waiting for him to leave the car.

Torque had an older Vette, a yellow 2003 Z06 that he had heavily modified to boost the car's horsepower. He and his friends called Dib's car "the blue devil," and vowed to send him and the vehicle straight back to hell.

Torque's harassment was brutal, unrelenting, and even enlisted his gang of buddies to threaten Dib, telling him he'd better not driv the car unless he was willing to race. As Dib quickly learned, you can't hide a jet stream blue Corvette very well in traffic; it tends to stand out. The bullying because so fieerce that for a while Dib stopped driving the car, opting to walk or hop on this bike to skool.

Admittedly, an eighteen year old kid behind the wheel of a fifty thousand dollar sports car would draw some animosity and jealousy; in fact, his father, a successful, world renound scientist with ties to the government, had warned him about that, but Dib had had no idea it would come to this.

Torque's bullying crossed the line the night of Dib's senior prom. Dib had picked up his date, Zita, and they'd had a great tim, but the, on his way back to drop her off, Torque had shown up and had forced Dib onto the shoulder as they'd descended one of the boulevard's tortous series of switchbacks and hairpin turns. Dib missed the guardrails by unches, pulled over, and bolted out of the car, only to watch as Torque flashed him the bird and squeeled off.

"I can't take this anymore," he told his girlfriend.

"Then do something about it."

Two days later, as Dib was returning from a late movie, Torque pulled up beside him at the streetlight. Dib glanced over- and a mental switch was thrown.

Torque sat there, revving his engine, his evil eys sparkling, his shaven head and the tattoos spidering over his forearms suggesting he'd spent a lifetime in prison while he was really just a punk.

Dib had taken a long breath.

Enough.

He was going to dust this bastard once and for all. And when they were finished, maybe Torqu would bow out like a man and stop the bullshit games. Maybe this fool would realize that driving a fast car didn't make you a man.

Yet now, the faster they drove and the more they challenged each other, the more Dib realized that if he lost this race, he'd never live it down; Torque would never get off his back. The bullying would grow even worse because Dib would be the loser who got dusted. Winning meant he'd be free of this bastard forever.

Or so he'd thought.

As a part of his modification package, Torque's Corvette was equipped with a nitrous oxide system, or NOS, that allowed the engine to burn more fuel and air. He suddenly boosted away, pulling a full car length ahead of Dib, who seeing this, reacted with more acceleration.

121, 122, 123 mph...

There had been long stretches between intersections, but now they rocketed into a much busier part of the city, with cross streets coming in five second intervals. A string of green lights gleamed overhead, but then a small commuter car pulled onto the road far ahead, blocking Torque's lane.

The two lanes for oncoming traffic were empty, so Dib rolled the wheel, taking himself across the road, allowing Torque to take his lane so they could both pass the car. This was a tactic understanding between street racers that Dib knew about but had never practiced.

They whooshed past the unsuspecting driverm who saw only blue and yellow streaks from the corner of his eye and whose car shook violently from their passing.

In unison, Dib and Torque cut back into their lanes.

135 mph...

Dib's moth fell open as he once more checked Torque's position: perfectly aligned with him.

The dotted yellow lines were a continuous ribbon, and the apartment buildings that walled in both sides of the road squeezed tighter as sheer acceleration made the road appear more narrow. Dib was now one with the machine, and he'd never felt anything more powerful and invigorating.

There was no other adrenaline rush like it.

At the same time, his shoulders knotted in terror because he knew just the slightest deviation in his course or sudden obstacle in his path would end it all. He drove along a cliff between pure terror and utter joy.

During the winter months in Earth City, when those precious rains most often occured, a year's worth of oik would begin to bubble up through the pavement. So as they crossed the next intersection, Dib felt the rear wheels begin to drift, and he realized with a start that they'd hit a large patch of oil and blasted over it, but now their wide race tires had grown slick.

Torque must have felt it, too, because he suddenly course corrected, shifting over toward a row of cars parked along the curb.

Dib began to lose his breath as both he and Torque began sliding even more rapidly, but then the yellow Vette jumped forward, the car's front end rising as Torque accelerated out of his slide, missing the parked cars by a side mirror's width, Dib estimated.

With a gasp, Dib shifted his wheel and missed the last car in the row by what could be a hairsbreadth.

Now Torque was sqaurely in the lead.

There wasn't much time. The first driver to cross Earth Avenue was the winner, and Dib figured they had only a half mile or less to go. But these speeds were ridiculous, the whole idea that he'd succumbed to was insane.

He should abandon now.

But his losses.

Deal with Torque's crap.

Just take his foor off the pedal and go home... With his tail between his legs.

But then Dib remembered the look on his prom date's face, how she, too, had been humiliated by Torque, and he considered all those days he'd cycled to skool to avoid dealing with the guy. Was he supposed to be a victim all his life?

He booted the accelerator pedal, and his neck snapped back.

Torque held his position in the right lane as Dib came blasting up beside him, and then, taking in a deep breath and holding it, Dib stomped on the pedal as he pucned the NOS. The engine's whine lifted, and the tailpipes rumbled even more loudly. He was almost afraid to check the HUD for his speed, and when he did, he though, _This is it, I'll be arrested._

167 mph...

No one would believe he'd gone that fast down a city street, and everyone would say what an utter fool he was, that he was no better than Torque, that he was endangering lives and belonged in jail. But first the police would confiscate his car and make him watch as they put it in the crusher. This was the well advertised fate of cars used by street racers.

The string of lights ahead turned yellow.

Beyond them, a few cars rolled to stops, the drivers waiting for their green lights.

They would cross into Dib's path. Their timing was perfectly horrible.

Dib glanced over at Torque, who mouthed a curse and accelerated while punching the NOS again.

Dib's heart was in his throat and sweat dappled his forehead. He could hardly breathe as one after another the lights turned red and Torque streaked toward them, his car blurring into a yellow sun impaled by crimson taillights.

Cars began to move across the intersection.

Torque would attempt to weave though them.

Something told Dib to check his rearview mirror, but nothing was back there, no police car or other vehicles, nothing- but then he noticed them: his eyes, bloodshot, heavy, dark, and aching. He did not recognize himself.

A wide pothole rushed up, and Dib veered so sharply to avoid it that he bumped- ever so slightly- the rear quarter panel of Torque's car. The impact was so light that Dib knew there's be no damage to either Corvette, but at their speeds, the slightest shift of tires could be catastrophic.

And it was.

Dib watched with horrid fascination as the tap caused Torque to slide him into the oncoming lane.

Torque's pinwheeling came to a sudden halt as his back tire slammed into the curb and the momentum lifted the entire car into the air.

The yellow Vette now spiraled like and Indy racer that had just hit the wall.

Dib gaped as Torque's fate became even more apparent. The car was tumbling toward the massive concrete column of a streetlight. And before Dib could pull up in his breath, the Vette struck the pillar, T-boning it so hard and fast that the entire vehicle split in two as glass, plastic, and shattered carbon fiberglass rose in a debris cloud while the heavier sections plunged toward the pavement. Before the rear end could hit the ground, it exploded in a fireball that consumed most of the street.A half second later, the front end of the car came to a thudding halt and was swept up into the first fireball.

Three, two, one, and a second explosion tore through the front end, englufing Torque in veils of black smoke backlit by flames.

Dib jammed on the brakes, then downshifted to second, rolling up on the scene: He was frozen, rapt, unable to fully process what he was seeing. But with a chill and shudder, he realized he had to get out of there. He hit the gas... The flames were painfully similar to the ones brent watched now, at this moment, some even seven years later, reflecting off his sunglasses.

* * *

**On The Lawn of Membrane Residence, Earth City, U.S.A., Earth**

**2020**

Dib stood on the lawn of his old home, watching with the rest of his Marines team as his house burned, bombed by Irkens, secondary explosion erupted somewhere in the background.

Indeed, those fires had just taken him back to that terrible moment when Torque Smacky had died on that rainy night. While his fellow Marines had been voicing as to why their recently promoted Lieutenant was staring at the burning wreck, Dib remained there, stunned, reliving his senior year in hi skool, feeling it all again. That night had changed everything.

"Hey, Lieutenant? Lieutenant Dib?"

Someone was yelling for him now, telling him to get down as oncoming fire erupted in the streets, yells, gunfire, and plasma discharge was muffled in the bacground... But he was still in the year 2013, inside his Vette, crying as he sped down the side street, crying because he fervently believed that his life was over.

What would his father think?

His father was a scientist, a great one, perhaps the greatest, a world leader who worked for the UN and the US Military. How would he feel about his only son being involved in a street race in which someone was killed?

If Dib hadn't challenged Torque, if he'd just continued to dimiss him, the kid would still be alive. He couldn't just sat it was all Torque's fault, that he'd deserved to die... Because Dib had been weak. Dib had, indeed, stooped to the kid's level. And because of that, the kid was dead.

The ride home had been the longest one of his life. He'd pulled the Vette into the garage, shut the door, as though he were being followed by someone who'd seen the accident, then dropped to his knees and vomited. He remained there for five minutes, just drooling and breathing, trying to explain to the police in his head why he'd been racing and how sorry he was and that now, yes, his life was over... _Take me away..._ And his small family of two would stand there, crying, as h was escorted into the police car, the cop placing a hand on Dib's head so he wouldn't bang it as he took a seat inside, behind the wire seperating them from him.

He was a dog.

A street racing dog headed to prison.

Dib rose and cleaned up the mess, then went to his room and lay there, afraid to shut his eyes because through that darkness would come the fire. Yet after a few more minutes and even with his eyes open, all he saw was the street, the cars, the Vette shattering into a million pieces.

The next day at skool, everyone was talking about the car accident, but there wasn't a single witness who would- or would- identify the other car. In fact, no one was coming forward with information because the media was reporting that Torque Smacky has ties to several gangs in the area, and that word _gang _scared everyone into silence.

Dib was called into a room at skool and questioned was with several other students who knew Torque. Dib assumed they'd ask him about Torque's bullying an that eventually he'd break down and confess to the race. But the detectives seemed bored, going through the motions, and Dib wasn't the only kid harrased by Torque and his friends.

Dib learned that other kids with fast cars both in his hi skool and in neighboring skools had also been challenged to street races. It seemed the police were already chalking this up to another foolish punk who'd been killed doing something stupid. The police had asked Dib what he'd been going that night. He said he'd gone to a movie and then went home- a half truth, to be sure. They even did a cursory inspection of his car, as they did with the other kids, but the Vette yielded no evidence about the crash.

During the weeks that followed, Dib's sorrow and guilt compelled him to learn more about Torque and his family. In moments of utter weakness he saw himself going over to their house and confessing to them what had happened, apologizing for his sins, and begging for their forgiveness. But it would never come to that, he knew. And so he'd watched them from afar, and he read the memorial MySpace page set up by his parents and brother he didn't know of.

There Dib learned that Dib was going into the military after hi skool. Who knew wwhat Torque would have done in the military?

He might have gone to war and fought valiantly for the United States. He might have done so many better things, smarter things, than racing his stupid car. And for months, Dib wondered about that, about the life he had taken from this world. He didn't have to agree to race. He didn't. He was smarter than thhat. But his actions had said he wasn't.

Some days he'd argue that Torque was a bastard, and he'd curse and tell himself he was a fool for feeling bad about it all.

Other days he would cry.

His father had expected him to head off to college. For six months he did nothing but work a part time job in a local supermarket, come home, and float in his pool like Dustin Hoffman in that old film, _The Graduate._ Tony, the produce manager, said Dib was one of his best clerks and that there was a real future in the supermarket business if Dib wanted it.

A real future.

Dib would only shrug.

Dib's father had long talks with him about ambition and the value of a college education. Dib stayed up late at night, wrestling with the idea that he didn't deserve to live a good life because Torque Smacky would never have one and that Dib ruined the lives of Torque's parents and brother.

Dib deserved to be punished- so deliberately ruining his life was the only path. But then one day while brent was at a gas station, he watched a soldier get out of his car and prepare to fill up. Dib looked at the young soldier: high and tight crew cut, uniform starched to perfection, and right there he realized it wasn't too late for him.

"I want to join the military."

His father was shocked.

His father argued that at the very least he should become an officer, that maybe, just maybe he could pull some strings and get Dib into West Point via a congressional appointment.

"Why do you want this so badly?" Zita had asked him.

"I just do," he'd said.

"I wish I could understand this."

"Zita, this is what I need to do."

"Will you be happy?"

"Of course..."

Dib's father had come through, and West Point was a culture shock and a hundred times tougher than Dib had ever anticipated. There was the encouragement, camaraderie, and support, to be sure, but there was alos the competition that drove his fellow cadets to extreme limits. There were many sleepless nights and moments when Dib staring into the demonic eyes of an upperclassman and wanting to drop out... But two things kept him there: the thought that he could live Torque's life for him and the thought that he deserved to be punished for what he'd done, so when the pain, torment, and stress came, he often welcomed him.

No surprise: Dib graduated at the _bottom _of his class. And when that happens, you don't get your pick of duty stations.

He shipped out to Camp casey, South Korea, and there he became a platoon leader in charge of four M1A1 tank crews and was part of First Tank. If the North Koreans decided to invade, they'd be knocking on Dib's front door. He did that for a few years and made friends with several Marines who'd convinced him to give Spec Ops Force Recon Marine a try. So he applied to the Special Forces school. He was rejected twice before a third time was a charm.

He still had nightmares about the Robin Sage event that tested everything he'd learned as an SF Marine... But ultimately, he'd graduated, been promoted to Lieutenant, and been sent to the outer regions of the US after NASA confirmed alien contact was iminent with the Irken Armada inbound for Earth. And now, as he finally dragged himself away from the burning house to fall into cover and issue orders to his men, he sensed that his life was about to change just as it had on that fateful rainy night, both moments marked by swelling clouds of smoke and fire.

(End prologue)


	2. Chapter 1

"The history of these days shall not be only written in human and Irken blood alone... But also with gravy, my curly fries to be the pen!" - Tallest Purple, Irken Empire leader

* * *

Chapter One

**Mumbai, Maharashtra, India**

**2021 (Present Day)**

For five years after the Irkens completely bombed Iran and Saudi Arabia, unaware of all the valuable resources the planet and that certain region harnessed, had killed six million and crippled the world's oil supply, Manoj Chopra had been having a recurring dream:

He was five years old, dashing through the slums of Mumbai, and being chased by three figures with long, metallic wings extending from their backs and glistening in the sun. They said they were angels, but their skin was green, with flickering flames from beneath their wings, launching them into the air. They seemed to smile underneath their helmeted and masked faces that made them seem bird-like, yet they seemed devoid of any real expressions.

One of the voices, belonged to a female, that came in silky whispers, she wore a white gold set of armor. Another, a male, came in almost a soft humming sensation, his armor matching the females. And the last, the biggest one of the three, at least foot taller then the other two, wore a dark violet armor, the texture looked like oil mixed with water, his voice was low, heavy, and burred. They said they had wanted to save him, but he wasn't sure if he could trust them, and he understood that if he got too close, something would happen.

So he ran.

They chased him down the alleys, across the trenches, the sewers, the garbage heaps, and the crowded city streets shoked by businesspeople, tourists, and beggars. He would run down another street, and suddenly, the largest of the group would take flight and swoop overhead, then drop in front of him, fold his arms over hischest, and with wings extending, say, "You are a good boy, Manoj. You will always do the right thing. So come with us now."

"I'm afraid."

The female kneeled down a few feet away from him, cocking her head to the left. "Don't be."

"I want to come with you, but I can't."

"Why?" asked the male with the matching pair of armor that the female had.

"Because I have to stay here."

Chopra charged past the armored angels and ducked into a small house, the same house that appeared repeatedly in the dream. About a dozen women and children sat on the bare floor, all of them making bidis by placing tabacco inside small _tendu _leaves, then tightly rolling them. They would secure each bidi with thread, then move on to the next one, hoping to make more than a thousand in one day alone.

One of the women was Chopra's mother. The two teenaged girls who sat beside her were his sisters, and all three were deeply in debt to the bidi contractors who loaned money at ridiculous interest rates in order to keep them enslaved. This had been Chopra's fate. In his youth, he had rolled thousands of bidis himself.

"You have to go with them," his mother said. "I'll still love you."

"I can't."

"You can't stay here. Is this the life you want? Your father would have wanted better."

Chopra's father had been killed in a construction accident, leaving his family with bills and no medical insurance.

Chopra shook his head at his mother. "He's gone. He will never know about me and what I do."

"Go with them."

Chopra glanced back. In the doorway, framed by the afternoon light, stood the female angel. She glowed in a silhouette and extended a hand. For a moment, Chopra thought the angel was beautiful, even with her face obscured by a breathing mask and dark visor. He tensed and turned away as now a women strode from the back of the room, along with an impeccably groomed man in a dark suit.

"He was, we believe, an eidetic memory," said the women, whose face came into the light and whose hands wer covered in chalk. She was one of Chopra's teachers from senior secondary school (high school). The man, Mr. Sanjay Deol, was a top executive with Axis Bank and one of Chopra's mentors who had helped send him to the Judge Business School in Cambridge. Because of his gifts, because of his "value" and talent, Chopra had been able to do something rare in his world: escape his destiny.

"Yes, we know all about him," answered Deol. "He is the most remarkable mathematician we've ever seen- and he's so young."

"But what about them?" Chopra asked. "Can you save my family?"

Deol shook his head and turned away, metallic wings sprouting from his back. And at that moment, as always happened, Chopra snapped awake and lay there in a pool of sweat. "The dream is simple to interpret," said one of the half dozen therapists Chopra had consulted over the years. "You're feeling guilty about the deaths of all the men who supported you. The men who turned your life around. The men who gave you life, as it were. The angels are unexplained. But they all died in the Irken Middle East Holocaust."

Chopra was forty seven years old now, and he knew better than to dismiss the dream as simple guilt. Something much deeper was simmering in his subconscious, and he was determined to uncover it. He'd heard the axiom that all great athletes are always running away from something. So what was it, really? Was he trying to run away from his meager roots?

Chopra leaned back in his office chair and glanced up through the panoramic windows of his penthouse suite. The city lay there before him: the choked streets, the towering buildings- some old and weather worn, others newly constructed. He was quite literally at the top of his world.

He wanted for nothing.

He could never spend all the money he had earned and saved. His mother and sisters had been rescued- by him, not by those creatures from his dreams. And yet at forty seven he had never married. Could he blame that on his physical appearance? Not solely. He was not an ugly man, he thought, but his short stature and considerable girth would never earn him a staring role in the latest Bollywood production.

That he couldn't tollerate contact lenses and wore thick spectacles didn't help matters, either. However, his unwavering commitment to his work had often interfered with his personal life. Because he had been taken from such squalor and been trained, educated, and placed in an enviroment of such ultra wealth, he felt he owed his mentors a remarkable return in their investments.

In fact, for the past ten years, he had abandoned all thoughts of dating and had simply begun working more than ever. After the Irkens orbital strike, his job became exceedingly more urgent and complicated. Chopra leaned forward and studied the computer screen. At the moment he was making a large monet trasnfer from a sovereign wealth fund bank account belonging to the former nation of Dubai. Although most of Iran and Saudi Arabia had been leveled in bombardment, Dubai's infrastructure had been partially spread, although what was left of the country had been evactuated and even now, some five years later, it was still unsafe to be there, unprotected, for more than eight hours at a time.

Chopra was and continued to be the minister and custodian of Dubai's accounts, and this particular one was worth some ninty two billion dollars.

How he had come to this position was yet another small miracle.

After his mentors at Axis had financed his college education, he had graduated and gone to work for them, becoming one of their chief financial analysts by the time he was just twenty six.

At thrity, he had been recruited by the Al Maktoum family of Dubai, who ruled the country since 1833. They wanted him to manage their sovereign wealth fund and become one of the country's chief finincial advisers.

Chopra left Axis with his mentors' blessing because the bank continued to do much business with Dubai and other United Arab Emirates members. This was, as one of his American raised mentors had put it, a marriage made in heaven.

Chopra found his work in Dubai both stimulating and rewarding. His employers treated him like royalty, paid him ridiculous sums of money, and encouraged him to be creative with their investments.

The creativity had continued- even after the Irken holocaust had effectively killed nearly all members of the family and left Chopra in a wasteland of grief.

With care and precision, he worked the computer's mouse and manipulated the funds. He was moving oil money into the green industry in an attempt to save the fund from more losses. A 400 billion Euro plan to power Europe with Sahara sunlight was finally getting off the ground after nearly twenty years of setbacks and debat, and Chopra saw a good future in that.

His employers might be gone, but he deemed it his responsibility to manage their money- because he believed he had moral and ethical responsibility to do so... And because he believed that at least one heir to the empire was still alive.

Hussein Al Maktoum would be sixteen now. The boy and his three sisters had been, like Chopra, out of the country when the strikes had occured. They had been wisely hidden away from those who would attempt to manipulate them and undermine what resources were left in the country.

Chopra had been sought by the other emirates to turn over the funds, but he had refused, instead saying that they belonged to the country's rightful heir, and until Hussein was found, Chopra alone had been legally entrusted to manage them. While the emirates plundered what was left of Dubai's other resources, Chopra kept the sovereign wealth wealth fun in check- along with a considerable cache of gold and silver held within Dubai's subterranean vaults, gold that belonged not only to Dubai but to other surrounding nations. Chopra believed he was one of the last "living keys" who could gain access to those vaults.

For five years he had wanted nothing more than to turn over this terrible burden he carried and deliver the codes, the funds, and the gold to the country's new leader. He was a man of fierce loyalty, and he would rather die than see these resources fall into the hands of evil men, including evil aliens.

If Hussein was still alive, he could rule now with the help of a regent or advisor who could be appointed by the emirates, or he himself could choose one from among the other surviving relatives. Indeed, there was a rumor that Sheikh Juma Al Maktoum, a family cousin, had become a warlord of sorts and occupied a few of the islands in the Strait of Hormuz, but Chopra's attempts to contact the man repeatedly failed because of mistrust and Irken interference in the area.

Chopra finished the computer transaction and rose to fetch a glass of Merlot from his wet bar.

His cell phone rang, and the name on the screen was familiar: Harold Westerdale, a British private investagator whom Chopra had hired years ago to track down surviving members of the Al Maktoum family. Chopra hadn't heard from Westerdale in many months, so the call was, indeed, a surprise.

"I think I have him, Mr. Chopra," came the breathless voice. "I think I have him."

"You have Hussein?"

"Yes, I've got some decrypted communications between him and his sisters, as well as the staff he's been with since the attacks. They're using high tech military satellite phones to call each other now. Hussein is in the Seychelles."

"Call me back in five minutes with all the details. I'm packing right now."

"Yes, sir."

Chopra rushed though the living room and into his bedroom. He'd been sitting there, making the transfer, reflecting on his life and what had happened to the Al Maktoum family when, at that very moment, Westerdale- a man he'd not heard from in months- had called about a lead.

Perhaps there was, as Chopra's mother had once told him, a connection between people with like minds and pure hearts. Maybe there was a connection between himself and Hussein, that they were destined to meet again now. To Chopra, Hussein was still just a small boy playing with a radio control car inside one of the new palaces.

The Republic of the Seychelles was a group of islands off the east coast of Africa, and that was about all Chopra knew of the place. He'd have to get online and decide what to pack, but he vowed that he'd be en route to the airport within an hour.

His heart raced. This was the best lead they'd had since the beginning.

He would do it. Find Hussein. That was his purpose.

He wasn't sure if he was now the man with the metallic wings, but he understood that this was the right thing, the honorable thing, the only thing he could do. His heart ached for closure.

He'd come a long way from his days spent rolling bidis, and as he entered middle age and could say he'd already enjoyed most of life's luxuries, there would be nothing more pleasing than to see this young man become the phoenix of his nation and rebuild it from the ashes even as the boy himself rose into manhood.

They would be Arthur and Merlin, and Chopra would do all in his power to help the boy Sheikh- because there were others, particularly the Irken Empire, who wanted nothing more than to control Dubai, seize the remaining oil, decontaminate it, and profit from the sales. Their government had been eyeing the country like wolves in winter, but the time had finally come for Dubai to return to power and prominence.

Chopra stood a moment and closed his eyes.

Maybe this was the true purpose of his life. To bolster a young man, to see a nation rise again. His eyes burned with tears, but then he reminded himself that his celebration was premature, that he hadn't located the young Sheikh yet. Not yet.

He wrenched a suitcase from his closet and tossed it on his bed. With trembling hands, he began to pack.

(End chapter)


	3. Chapter 2

"For the good of the mission." - Irken Military Philosophy

* * *

Chapter Two

**Montereau-Fault-Yonne, France**

She was an Irken of three names- but only one accurately identified her.

Her birth name was Jul Mik'hini, the daughter of a military instructor.

Her married name was Jul Dosh'ka, wife of the late Ord Dosh'ka, ten years her senior.

Her code name was _Sneg. _The Empress. She was one hundred and two and once described by a coleague as an "Irken female of sinister beauty."

But those days were gone.

The once perfectly curled antenna had been hacked down to male length and painfully straightened out. The once curvaceous body, like Tak, was now lean, raw muscle. However, some things never changed: The man currently chasing her down the narrow cobblestone street would die slowly.

Painfully.

He would, as all the others had, meet only The Empress, because that's all she had left.

Sneg was The Empress in Irken folklore. In one tale she was created by Tallest Miyuki. She fell in love with a factory worker, but when her squeedly spooch warmed to feel close to another, she melted. In another narrative, falling in love transformed her into a mortal who would die. The moral of all stories mentioning Sneg, it's better to stay in the cold.

Always the cold, where she could see her breath, where people warmed to her personality before she tore out their jugulars and walked away, feeling only the numbing chill.

And the cardinal rule: Never look back.

She rounded the next corner, pressed her back against the wall, then slipped the knife from her hip pocket and thumbed the button. The human inspired Irken switchblade flashed out from its hilt and shimmered in the moonlight.

Drawing a deep breath, she willed herself into a state of calm and waited for him. Oh, how she hated this, hated it more than anything.

She was always on the run now. Never pursuing. She loved the chase but despised being on the wrong end of it.

Who didn't want a piece of her?

That was a good question.

She was valuable to everyone: the Americans, the Euros, the Irken Empire, the Green Brigade Transnational, and now, recently learned, what was left of the Russian government even wanted her dead.

The Green Brigade- the terrorist bastards she'd betrayed back in Canada. They wanted her because she'd used and murdered their leader, "Green Vox," a code name for the replacable idiot in charge. She'd done an expert job convincing them she was a bleeding heart tree hugger who loved to blow stuff up.

The Americans wanted her because she was a former member of the Irken Main Intelligence Directorate (IMID) and could open up the Irken Empire's entire intelligence community like a can of tuna.

The Euros wanted her for the same reason, and the Irkens wanted her dead for screwing them over when they had tried to invade Canada to seize the oil sands. Plus they didn't want her puking up all their secrets to their enemies.

And the Russians, small cells of their government still hiding in large super complexes underground, sent task forces well equipped and trained to find and eliminate Colonel Jul, for they held her responsible for the orbital bombardment and the complete destruction of the Federation.

She smiled bitterly. It was, after all, nice to be popular.

Where the hell was he?

She dared not peek around the corner. He was waiting. So would she.

Her persuer couldn't wait anymore and finally rounded the corner, his footfalls light, his breath behind his mask and helmet audible. She could even smell him- a faint mixture of some weird texture and steel.

In one fluid stroke, she attempted to burry the blade in his abdomen, with no luck, this soldier, a Russian one, was wearing a full body of armor, steel plating covering every inch of his body. The armor was similar to that of a Helghast capture troopers armor, minus the glowing eyes. He returned with a growl as he thrusted the foot long razor sharp blade mounted on his right wrist toward her, she dodged, catching his arm and twisting it while simutaneously retracting a silenced pistol, the same she used to kill Green Vox, and fired into his leg twice before pumping a round into his stomach.

He gasped and fell back against the wall, his breath wheezing now. She tore off his mask and helmet to reveal a young man, perhaps eighteen or twenty with a number one buzz cut.

"Who sent you?" she asked him in Russian. "You'll die anyway. Just tell me."

"Go to hell." he said weakly through a grunt, just before he spit in her face.

She wiped the split away with disgust, she grabbed the hilt of the knife and thrusted it in between the steel plating overlapping on his abdomen, gritted her teeth, and drove it even deeper into him. He gasped and clutched her hand.

She put the gun to his head. "Did a Russian send you? An Irken? Are you working with Storr?"

Before he could answer, a shot tore into the brick wall as a round nicked her by a cenrtemeter. With a start, she spun- just as another shot sent a piece of the wall tumbling onto her back. She flinched, squinted against the shower of debris, and tried to steal a look at her attacker.

He was across the alley, but she only caught a glimpse before he ducked behind the wall. He had cover, she was in the open.

Time to run. She yanked free her blade, used the guy's armor plated shoulder to close it, then raced away.

The cobblestone beneath her boots threatened to send her tumbling if she wasn't careful. Her ankle twisted slightly as she reached the end of the alley and turned right, heading down a broader street lined by dark storefronts. She kept low and repeatedly glanced over her shoulder.

Napoleon had fought one of his epic battles in Montereu-Fault-Yonne, and it seemed she, too, would engage in a battle to the death. She had never imagined herself dying on the streets of a small French townn. Or even on a planet like this for that matter. She'd always assumed the Irken government would catch up to her, throw her on planet Dirt, maybe even a prison and torture her for months, and then, one night, her cell would fill with light, and there would be Ord, standing there, welcoming her into the afterlife. They would be together, finally... And forever.

Before their marriage he'd been assigned to treat the workers cleaning up the 70 MWe and 90 MWe training reactors on had been fresh out of medical training and had attended to her own brother Irti, who had suffered from radiation poisoning while contructing the two story concrete sarcophagus that now encased the two reactors. Officials and administrators had been grossly negligent, and The Empress had lost her brother first... Her husband two years later, a delayed victim of the contamination.

At the moment Irti had died, the true Empress was born.

While standing at Irti's funeral, she had vowed revenge.

She'd kept her surname to honor her family, and one family member in particular, her father, to honor his work in the service of others and had kept her sights on the IMID, the organization with the most power and freedom to move throughout the universe and exact her revenge where and when she could. But first she would work her icy tendrils throughout the entire organization so that she could eventually choke them once and for all.

Thus, sh clambered her way up the intelligence lader with a vengeance, becoming one of the most effective and lethal officers the IMID had ever fielded. Her matrial arts skills and marksmenship were awe inspiring, as evidenced by the looks on her colleagues' faces when she competed against them. Her reputation grew, and was eventually recruited by Major General Tak herself to work missions on behalf of the director and the Tallests.

She'd been asked to work alongside another Irken, at the time Zim was only a Liutenant General, and together they coordinated several attacks on selected governments around the universe, mostly information gathering and a few assassinations.

On the day she'd been promoted to Colonel, she'd been called into Director Exe's officer, where he'd told her she was one of the most brilliant and trusted IMID officers in the history of the organization.

That remark was met by her shrug. "Is there something you need, sir?"

He'd gone on to say that the security leak involving Zim, promoted to Chieftain Major General by Tallest Red himself, had been exposed and that the humans had been alerted by his presence on Earth. Exe needed her to go underground by staging her own death with the IMID's help. She would need to erase herself from the organization- all in the name of restoring the Empire to greatness.

Would she take the mission? Of course. By going underground she could more efficiently destroy the entire Irken Empire. They'd helped her set the fire in her apartment, plant the body, and even Zim, with whom she'd been dating, was not privy to the plan.

As part of her new mission, she'd forged a partnership with the Green Brigade Transnational because the Irkens liked to use them as fall guys for certain operations against Europe and the United States. It was painfully simple to set up these fools, and they enjoyed claiming responsibility for acts that were, in truthm perpetrated by Irken or Irken backed forces.

She had even made Exe, Tak, Red, and Purple believe to the bitter end that she was with them, until she was able to blackmail them and the rest of the Empire with some nukes in Canada. But then her other brother, Kolo, had gone down with his ship, _Ish'brod, _before he was able to help.

That her plan had fallen aprt didn't matter. She was still free and still working for her new employers, whose goals were similar to her own. There was, however, no rest for the weary, no walking without checking your back.

The Empress had learned that Tak and Exe had hired Storr, another agent working for the IMID, to capture her, since most of their best agents had failed (and been killed by her). Storr was a double agent, and The Empress knew him well. If anyone could capture her, it was probably him. He was a crafty bastard who made few mistakes, so she was beginning to believe that these fools after her now were not working for him. The attack was too sloppy.

She dropped into the next alcove, finding herself huddled against the closed door of a bakery, and removed the small infrared camera from her coat pocket. She carried the credit card sized device wherever she went. Point and click and you had a picture of your enviroment with the heat sources illuminated. Forward looking infrared radar in your pokcet.

The second specialized soldier was coming straight down the road, toward her, wielding a silenced BZ-19, and she had to gamble that he hadn't seen her duck out of sight.

She pocketed the camera, waited, heard his footfalls grow louder, then braced herself.

Just as he passed, she balanced herself on one hand, slid out her right leg, swung it around, and made contact with his ankles, her leg like a blade cutting him down.

As he dropped, she reached up and put a round in his abdomen. He screamed as the round went right under the overlapping armor and into his body, he was about to roll over and fire when she dropped the gun, and, with both hands pushed up, she leapt on him, knocking him onto his back and latching both hands onto his wrist to release his weapon. Her three large, claw like fingers, began to crush the steel armor around his wrist and quickly pried free his gun, which clattered to the sidewalk. She shoved him back, grabbed the second gun, and trained it on him.

In Russian, she asked, "How is Vox these days? Or should I ask, _who _is Vox these days?"

The guy was panting through his mask. She ripped it off along with his helmet and balistic goggles and sighed.

She knew this guy.

He wasn't working for Storr.

His name was Kiril, half blind out his left eye with a grey haze and scar over it, and he was a member of the Elite Spetsnaz Division (ESD).

The attack might have been sloppy, but they'd come dangerously close and were getting better.

She'd no idea _they _were on her back, perhaps she was the one getting sloppy. How the hell had they found her? Storr had contacts, resources... What did they have- Unless Exe and Tak had also employed them to catch her and they had access to the IMID's databases? This development was not good. Not at all.

Kiril raised his hands. "Nice... Girl," he purred in Russian.

She lifted her weapon with lightning relexes as Kiril lunged for her, she fired, the 9mm Makarov rounds pinging off his armor as he landed a hard right hook across her jaw with, litteraly, an iron fist. Her head was sent flying toward the brick wall off to her right, her head bounced and she felt blood running down the side of her head. She recoiled, only to find herself on the opposite end of the BZ-19s barrel.

"Foolish Irken," he said in Russian, spitting blood and a tooth onto the sidewalk. "Maybe one day... We will finsih this fight... You and I. But for now... I will let you gather some friends... Maybe then... It'll be a fair fight."

Kiril leaned down to retrieve his helmet and its counterparts, weapon still trained on Jul. He snickered before disapearing into another alley. She chased him, only to find a shadowy void, nothing more. She stood, stole a look around the street, then hustled toward a taxi. Within two minutes she reached the still idling vehicle, tore the dead driver most likely caught in the cross fire out of his seat, hopped in, and was about to throw the car in gear when her phone rang.

She checked the screen: It was Patti.

She had to take it.

They spoke in English. "Can I call you back?" she asked.

"You have two minutes."

"I've got a little problem right now." she wiped the blood dripping down her head.

"So do we. Two minutes."

She hung up and drove off, eventually heading north up Quai des Bordes along the river. She would continue northwest toward the airport.

Dr. Merpati "Patti" Sukarnoputri was an Indonesian physician and deputy director general of the World Health Organization, United Nations, Geneva. Patti was also a member of the _Ganjin_ (pronounced gahn-jeen), the group that now employed The Empress.

Much to The Empress's knowledge of the _Ganjin _was sketchy, and her efforts to learn mor about the group drew serious threats. She had concluded, though, that they were composed of a handful of academics and business prodessionals whose primary goal was to manupulate the superior powers during this time of war in an effort to benefit the People's Republic of China.

Whether the Chinese government was aware of or endorsed their efforts remained to be seen, but the _Ganjin _paid The Empress quite handsomely so that by the time she was one hundred and five she would never have to work again. She would get out of the espionage business. She would continue donating money to cancer research and work with children afflicted with the disease.

But she would not do this until she saw The Empire- and all of its evil- seized up like an old Irken in his three hundreds in cardiac arrest and then... Flatline.

Once she was on the highway, she returned Patti's call. Security protocols were in place, and consequently, Patti was the only member of the _Ganjin _that The Empress had ever met. Patti was in her fifties and a cunning career women who never appreciated The Empress's sarcasm.

"That was a minute and forty seven seconds," The Empress said after Patti answered the phone. "Fast enough? Or am I fired?"

"Shut up and listen to me. I'll be at the airport waiting for you. I'll tell you where when I arrive."

* * *

They met at a Starbucks inside the main terminal, she activated her hologram disguise before entering the airport. The Empress ordered a pumpkin spice frappuccino and told the cashier that Patti would pay for it after having a great difficulty pronouncing the word frappuccino.

The Empress always recieved her mission orders in person, and that was fine by her. Electronic listening and tracking devices had become so complicated that she never knew who was watching or listening. Kiril was the most likely suspect, right under their noses. Nanobot technology had developed rapidly in the past decade, and it only took a light dusting for an enemy to be able to track her wherever she went.

Countermeasures were necessary, and so they'd both gone into the ladies' room and "dusted off" before speaking.

"It's all on here," Patti said, handling The Empress a smartphone whose screen displayed a picture of an indian man who resembled a professor or business professional.

"Who's this guy?"

"Manoj Chopra. He's a banker, a finance manager, a genius with investments. He was working for the royal family in Dubai before the war began. One of our people in Italy was tipped off to a transaction involving one of Dubai's sovereign wealth funds. We'd thought no one had access to them. The funds had been lying dormant since the bombardment, but this recent activity has sparked interest."

"You want me to kill him?"

"Of course not. He'll get us into Dubai's vaults. Intel we were gathering before the war indicated Dubai was beginning to stockpile oil reserves, along with the country's gold- and the gold of several other nations from the region- will be in one of those subterranean vaults, and Chopra is our key."

"You're positive he can get you in there?"

"He was one of the most trusted confidants of the royal family. He can get us in."

"All right, then. It's a simple smeetnapping. Don't you have anything more interesting?"

"That's rather amusing coming from someone who almost lost her life because of carelessness. Maybe I can get Kiril to get the job done."

The Empress smirked. "If you guys were watching me, why didn't you help?"

"We don't like to interfere. You know that. You're merely a subcontractor, but we've put a lot of faith in you, and your work this far has been exemplary. I hope you're not too preoccupied."

She tensed. "Chopra's location is in here?" she asked, lifting the smartphone.

Patti nodded.

The Empress rose. "Then thanks for the drink. I'll call you when I have him."

(End chapter)


	4. Chapter 3

"No good decision was ever made in a swivel chair." - George S. Patton

* * *

Chapter Three

**The Liberator Sports Bar and Grill**

**Near Fort Bragg, North Carolina**

Dib sat alone in a corner booth, sipping his draft beer and absently eyeing the flat screens suspended from the ceiling. Several football games, a car race, and a European soccer game barely earned his interest. The Liberator was a requisite hangout for Special Forces guys and those considered a step up from them- the men and women of Ghostex: Delta 6, an elite and highly classified group of warriors handpicked from SF ranks and highly skilled marines. Ghostex: Delta 6 soldiers were issued the most cutting edge state of the art technology, and it was a great honor to be selected to join such an organization- even though you couldn't tell anyone, because Ghosts don't exist.

From 2016 on the day the Irkens bombed several nations before discovering Earths value to the Empire to mid 2020, Dib had fought with various Marine and Special Forces teams, even traveling up to Canada to fight against invading Irken forces. His work there had gained him the attention of the Ghostex: Delta 6's leadership, and, after dragging him through an intense qualifications process and course, he'd been selected to train and lead a new Ghostex Delta team.

But that glory was short lived.

He and his new group had run a couple of small missions in the States that had gone south because Dib was too used to fighting by the seat of his pants, like his old friend, always charging forward with his heavily armored chassis and machine gun, instead of sticking rigidly to the plan. He'd had that freedom in the Marines and regular Special Forces, and he wasn't always compelled to keep everyone in the communications loop, but the Ghostex Delta soldiers were much more hardcore about their operations, not blindly following orders but executing them with surgical precision and with full disclosure and full accountability on the battlefield.

His newbie team had run a simple intelligence gathering operation surprisingly off planet, on Mars, and that, too, had wound up in the toilet because Dib had second guessed the plan and jumped the gun on the operation. He'd also failed to properly communicate with his superiors. Some things were better left in the field, in this case, off the planet. Sometimes superiors didn't need to hear the uglier side of an operation.

Unfortunately, the Ghosts' equipment had higher ups breathing down Dib's neck 24/7, which really unnerved him, and he sometimes took his frustration on his people. As a consequence, Dib went through team members the way he went through beer, some requesting transfers, others simply being dropped by him. Recent rumors had it that guys who couldn't hack it on other Ghostex Delta teams were being busted down and collected into a group of misfits to be led by Dib.

They would get all the crap jobs like guarding oil tankers, or they'd get some of the most dangerous but least important jobs- since they were the most expendable group in the unit. They would act as "bait" while the other teams swept in and stole the glory. Ironically, even the U.S. military's most elite still had it's bottom o the barrel, and though the Ghosts' least capable operators were arguably ten times more lethal than the average Joe, Dib's colleagues would never let him live down his mistakes and weaknesses.

And speaking of one such devil, "Schoolie," a Master Sergeant with no neck and a complexion as scarred as a crushed beer can, ambled over to Dib's table. They called him "Schoolie" because he dreamed of becoming a professor at the U.S. Army War College. Trouble was, he was too inept to ever get his degrees. He was an excellent warrior but more of a kinesthetic guy who did much better with physical tasks than mental ones.

The drunken oaf shook his head at Dib. "I know why you're sitting alone."

Dib just looked at him.

"They hate you," Schoolie went on. "You've put em' back through the Robin Sage like they were noobs. You're talking trash to them. So they hate you."

Dib took a long pull on his beer and thought about that. He had forced his entire team to go back through the Army's hellish and grueling Robin Sage training exercise, normally reserved for Special Forces candidates, not seasoned Ghostex Delta warriors. Being forced to go back through the training was humiliating enough, but Dib had deemed it important and necessary because his current group was suffering from a severe lack of morale.

He'd hoped that returning to the course might rekindle some of their "beginner spirit" in regard to combat operations. He's been mistaken. His team had resented the training, though they were respectful enough to keep those feelings to themselves; however, their expressions said it all.

"Is there a punch line in there somewhere?" Dib finally asked Schoolie. "A sarcastic remark? Or are you auditioning to become my new therapist?"

Schoolie grinned. "That's pretty good."

"Unless you're picking up my tab, you're dismissed. Sergeant."

"Your people won't even drink with you."

"They're not here yet. Get lost, before I pull rank and things get ugly."

Schoolie snorted. "They're right over there. They've been here for fiteen minutes. You haven't even noticed."

Dib rose slightly so he could look over a small wall between the booths. He realized sagging shoulders that the bastard was right. His entire Ghostex: Delta 6 team- all eight operators- had put together two tables on the other side of the bar. They were sitting around, drinking, joking, and getting ready to order.

"Look at that. Not a one of them came over here to say, 'Hey, Lieutenant, why don't you join us?'" said Schoolie.

Dib dropped a few bills on the table, then stood, bracing himself to confront the group.

"I think you got a situation on your hands, Lieutenant," said Schoolie.

Dib threw up a hand, ignoring the man.

Now Dib's cheeks felt warm. Yes, they hated him, all right. If they could pick up their game and jettison their bad attitudes, he wouldn't have to deal with this.

That he kept forgetting their names certainly contributed to their lack of respect. He had made himself a cheat sheet just to keep track:

_Lakota: my assistant. Native American. Wiseass._

_Daugherty: the big guy with the tiny voice._

_Copeland: the New York mafia guy. Medic._

_Riggs: punk chick. Good shot._

_Heston: Texas cowboy, movie nut._

_Pak: Korean guy, never talks. Reminds me of an Irken. Better keep an eye on him._

_Noboru: Japanese guy. Uncle was in NSA._

_Schleck: string bean. Sniper. I like him._

Dib paused a moment, slipped the index card out of his pocket, stole a quick look at the list of names, then tucked it back into his pocket and slowly approached the table. They weren't just stereotypical soldiers; they were real people with real hopes and dreams. He knew that, but his job wasn't to stroke them- it was to whip their asses into shape while earning their loyalty and respect.

Easier said than done for a man whose patience was already threadbare from the last two decades of constant warfare.

Conversations broke off, and all gazes fell upon him.

He cleared his throat. "What's up?"

Lakota, who'd taken her hair out of the usual tight bun, looked rather attractive as she raked her fingers through her locks and said, "Lieutenant, uh, I guess we all really need to talk."

"Yeah, about how much we suck," said Copeland in his New York drawl. "This is a weird place to be- back in noob school. I thought I was done wearing diapers."

Just when he'd thought they were respectful enough to keep their complaints to themselves- boom - here they came...

"Copeland, right?" Dib asked.

"Very good, sir."

"You're a medic and a good machine gunner, but they sent you to me because you're a wiseass."

"That's what we heard about you, sir," said Lakota.

Dib grinned crookedly. "I want to clarify that. I've been doing this long enough to realize what works and what doesn't. That's all. I'll do my best to get the job done and keep you alive. That's why we're back here, back to the beginning. This is good. This keeps us humble and honest. I'm not trying to be anything I'm not. I've recently learned I've been skipped over for any further promotions. My record ain't that great anymore. My personal life is nonexistent But I like to think I've got heart. And I'm getting you've got heart, too."

"Sir, this might keep us honest, but I'd rather keep lying," said Riggs, wriggling her brows, her spiked hair hard as icicles. "We all know what you're trying to do, and we appreciate the idea, but the fact is we've all just had bad luck."

"Well, there you go. I appreciate that honesty," said Dib.

"And speaking of being honest, why don't you do the same with us, sir?" said Heston, his voice coming slowly, musically. "Luck or not, we're all getting close to getting busted out of here and sent back down to SF or the Marines."

"That's not true," said Dib, tasting the lie. "Look, we get through this, you prove to me you're ready, and I'm sure something will come along that will-"

Dib didn't finish his sentence. His phone was ringing in his pocket. The caller ID was blocked.

His people groaned as he answered.

He held up a palm when he realized who was calling.

* * *

On the way over to the isolation chamber, Dib accessed the network on his smartphone and retrieved the declassified bio on Major Katrina Parsons, tactical operations specialist, code name "Hammer."

When the CIA-JSF[CBRN] had been formed and had better organized all of the United States' military operations through concentrated global network systems, Parsons had become a key player. She'd been raised in a military family, with a father who'd been in the Air Force pilot. She'd attended the Virginia Military Institute and had graduated with the class of 2004. Then she'd gone to the naval academy, received her BS in systems engineering, and had graduated summa cum laude.

She'd been in U.S. naval intelligence and logistics and had gone to serve in the U.S. Naval Special Warfare Command. She had been selected by Scott Mitchell himself to join the JSF division of the CIA. Dib's eyes bugged out as he finished reading the screen. General Scott Mitchell was a former Ghostex: Delta 6 operator, one of the organizations best, a living legend who now led the entire JSF.

And Parsons had been recruited by him.

This was huge. Parsons was a _major _player with a record that made you hate how good she was.

Dib frowned. And then he _really _frowned.

Why the hell did Parsons want to talk to him, a scrubby faced gunslinger with a now tainted record?

They reached the base, and the isolation chamber wasn't a chamber at all but a heavily guarded Quonset hut near the nondescript cluster of small buildings that housed Ghostex Delta command. There were no signs, no indication at all that some of the world's deadliest warriors were commanded from this post.

Inside, Dib took a seat before a sixty inch screen, along with the rest of his team. They were instructed to wait there until Major Parsons called again.

At the back of the room sat two men, and Dib had to do a double take, pun intended, because they were, in fact, twins, one well dressed in an expensive suit, the other wearing jeans and a T-shirt that read _Mucky Duck Restaurant, Captiva Island, Florida. _They were both at least six feet, perhaps slightly taller, as lean as Olympic swimmers, and although they both had the same length blond hair, the jeans guy wore his all shaggy and sticking out, while the suit guy wore his gelled back.

They might be twins, but there was a definite and deliberate distinction between them that seemed more on the part of the sloppy guy than the neat one. Dib smiled weakly at them. The jeans guy nodded. The suit guy looked daggers and folded his arms over his chest.

"Hey, Lieutenant, who're they?" asked Lakota in a near whisper.

Just then a burst of static and series of encryption code numbers scrolled across the screen for a few seconds until an image appeared. On the left was Major Katrina Parsons, too pretty for her own good and remarkably young for her post. On the right was another women, much older, with gray streaks through her medium brown hair. Her narrow glasses suggested she was as much academic as she was intelligence officer.

Parsons cleared her throat. "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. For those of you who don't know her, I want to introduce Ann Grimsdottir, director of the NSA's Phoenix program. I know once you were promoted into Ghostex: Delta 6, you became aware of the Phoenix's existence, but I'm assuming most of you haven't met its director. Grim?"

"It's a pleasure," said Grimsdottir, nodding politely.

Dib stiffened and began to slide back into his chair.

He was a cut-to-the-chase kind of guy and couldn't wait to escape the pleasantries. "_Hi, my name is Dib and I like pina coladas and blowing stuff up in the rain..."_

The next five minutes went like this: _Blah, blah, blah. Blah, blah, blah, oh yes, one more thing, blah, _until, finally, something important caught his attention- "... and you'll have two Phoenix's attached to your unit. The target will be Colonel Jul Mik'hini, aka The Empress. Her dossier will be available on the network. Suffice it to say that we want her alive if possible. You are, however, authorized to shoot to kill. But that's a last resort. This women is former IMID and more valuable to us than you know."

Parsons gave them more details about The Empress's last known location and how they would be heading off to Europe within the next four hours. They'd been formally introduced to the two Phoenix's at the back of the room, Jorge and Tristan Volker. Jorge was the clean-cut one, Tristan was the looser free spirit.

Dib has already decided to request full dossiers on the two Elite Forces soldiers, and he hoped Parsons would divulge that information. Bottom line: You wanted to know who had your back- and who might not.

As they left the room, Dib reached out to shake Jorge's hand.

The Phoenix frowned and accepted the handshake. "Nice to meet you, Lieutenant."

"It's not easy, I know," said Dib. "You guys are used to working alone."

"That's right," said Tristan. "I don't even like to work with my brother. And all this military talk gives me an upset stomach. We're spooks, not soldiers."

"I apologize for my brother," said Jorge. "He suffered some head trauma as a child and he's never been-"

Tristan jabbed Jorge in the ribs, then faced Dib. "Don't worry about us, GI Joe. Just give us a long leash, and we'll deliver that bitch on a silver platter."

Tristan tossed his head back, hair flying, and for a moment, Dib wondered if the man was on drugs.

No, just a little weird.

* * *

Back in their barracks, Dib gathered his team into a half circle. "You got your wish. No more training. Live fire.. Test of fire. Are we up for this?"

A few of them shrugged.

"Look, they gave us a good operation."

"Yeah, but something's not right," said Lakota. "They wouldn't give us something this important- unless they're making it seem important and it's really not... Or bait. The Phoenix's got the real work. We're just the bulldogs waiting outside to cover them when they leave."

"Not true. And don't get paranoid," said Dib. "Higher knows I've had some nice captures during the early years of invasion, seventeen in all, and those ops went well. Maybe they figure me for a guy who can abduct people. I'm like a UFO, so they gave us this. That make you feel better, Lakota?"

She shrugged. "A little."

Pak, the Korean guy who never talked, widened his eyes and lifted his chin. "Lieutenant, I don't think we should trust the NSA Phoenix's."

Dib frowned. "What makes you say that?"

Heston cursed under his breath. "Lieutenant, he never talks, but when he does, you should listen."

"Pak?" Dib asked again.

"I don't mean to sound unprofessional, sir, but I do have some experience with the NSA through joint operations in the Helmand Province. They always have another agenda. And you heard what the director said about those CIA field operators who went after The Empress. Five dead, three still missing."

"Well, we sure as hell ain't the CIA."

Pak's tone grew more grave. "No, but those teams all had one thing in common- they had NSA Phoenix's attached to their units."

"Could be just a coincidence, but if you haven't learned this about me by now, here's a quick lesson- you need to earn my trust. And so will they."

"I'm not worried, sir. You carry the highest rank in this unit. So you should be."

Dib sighed. "All right, everyone, let's pack up. Bring your civvies. We need to look like tourists. We finally get to insert with real cover. I always love it when they drop us into a city wearing unmarked fatigues- but we're not supposed to look like soldiers."

"Can I wear a dress and heals?" said Riggs.

That query was met by the hoots, hollers and catcalls of all the men, save for Dib and Pak.

"Calm down, wolves. Riggs, that sounds good. Just be ready to ditch the heals when I need you."

"You got it, sir."

"All right, on the ready live in twenty minutes."

They muttered behind him as he spun on his heel and left, heading back to the office to pick up their travel docs. While en route, Schoolie caught him on the sidewalk.

"Heard you were shipping out, got a big mission." said Schoolie, nudging Dib with his elbow.

"Yeah, we're going to rescue your father from the backyard kiddie pool. He's been lying in it all day, getting drunk."

"How do you come up with this stuff?"

"You inspire me."

"Seriously, Dib, just wishing you good luck."

Schoolie proffered his hand.

When Dib glanced down at that hand, he saw another one, darker skinned, and when he looked up, there was Torque Smacky, grinning. _"All I want is a race. Just shake hands and tell me you'll race so I don't have to kick your ass."_

Dib blinked hard and faced Schoolie. "I'll shake when I get back. Don't want to jinx myself, okay?"

"Okay, Dib. I heard you were superstitious." Schoolie lowered his hand. "Make old Buzz proud."

"Roger that."

Schoolie had just referred to Major Harold "Buzz" Gordon, born on March 17th, 1955, and one of the first soldiers assigned to Ghostex: Delta 6 when the program was formed in 1994. He'd gone to become and Lieutenant Colonel and company commander, working extensively with Scott Mitchell. Buzz was now considered the "father" of Ghostex: Delta 6, while Mitchell was considered the greatest living Ghost. Dib hoped history wouldn't record him as the black sheep of the unit, but you had to do more than hope to change the course of history... You had to _act._

And he would.

(End chapter)


	5. Chapter 4

"Fear is born of uncertainty, we fear nothing because our purpose is clear and our path is certain. To be Irken is to know your place in the universe, and from that certainty comes the strength to conquer all." - Tallest Red, Irken Empire Leader

* * *

Chapter Four

**Chateau de Menthon-Saint-Bernard**

**Lake Annecy, France **

Dib and his Ghostex team, along with the Volker brothers, had traveled to a locale so spectacularly beautiful that it was hard to remember he was on mission. The juxtaposition between this part of France and some of Dib's old duty stations- little hellholes in Afghanistan draped in "moon dust"- was enough to weaken his knees. The Chateau de Menthon-Saint-Bernard, a medieval castle built in the tenth century, towered some two hundred meters over Lake Annecy, the second-largest in France. The castle was like something out of a movie, with great stone walls, spires, and ornate turrets set against a verdant hillside. Walt Disney might have taken inspiration from the place when he'd planned his Magic Kingdom castle because the environs had a distinct fairy-tale air.

Behind the fortress's ancient walls were 105 rooms on four levels, and Dib presently stood in the main banquet area on the second floor, watching as partygoers slowly filtered in past the orchestra. A banner hung across the one wall. In Irken symbols and English type it read, _ Congratulations Team Giel'schu, victors of the 2021 Tour de France. _Despite the war, sporting events, which some Irken Defectors/ Civilians were accepted in, like the Tour de France, Super Bowl, and the World Series forged on and were more popular than ever; however, the Americans and the Europeans were all prone to banning certain groups from their international events.

Dib had read in the papers that the Irkens had threatened to completely bomb the Euros, because the French were talking about banning the Irken team from the tour. Well, the French had bowed to the pressure, and the Irkens had won, with their best rider, Kluu Maxix, claiming the yellow jersey as a rider with the best time and another of their riders claiming the "king of the mountains" competition. The Irken had conquered the tour, and the French now wore their dismay like moth-eaten coats. Nathalie Perreau, the president of the EU, called the victory a travesty and insisted on more anti-doping checks for the Irken team.

None of that mattered.

Now the team was celebrating it's victory that had been rented, no doubt, through extreme pressure on the French as the Irkens continued to dangle their claws just above the weapons release.

Admittedly, Dib was glad the Irkens had won, otherwise he wouldn't be standing in a French castle.

It seemed that Kluu Maxix was The Empress's cousin, and there had been a shooting near Montereau-Fault-Yonne, a stop along the tour. One man had turned up dead and had been identified as an Elite Spetsnaz soldier, no one on the planet had heard word of any Russian activity for quite some time. Death always lay in The Empress's wake, and so Dib and his team had prepared their trap. The others were in position outside the castle and in the surrounding hills, while he and Jorge Volker were inside, with Volker posing as a guest and Dib as part of the French security team. Parsons had worked out this arrangement, and the security team, while sarcastic and aloof, were playing along as they repeatedly slipped out for their cigarette breaks.

Dib's wireless earpiece buzzed.

Lakota and the others reported the arrival of the next group and were scrutinizing every women. Jul Mik'hini could be disguised with a wig, heavy makeup, hologram, who knew... The more Dib had read about The Empress, the more uneasy he'd become. Trying to capture her would be like trying to wrestle a Siberian tiger into a pair of handcuffs.

The Empress's profile had been supplied by an Irken named Zim, a former Chieftain Major General with the IMID who had worked _and _slept with the female Irken. The General had been captured in Seattle which now belonged to the Americans once more, dragged back to Guantanamo and then to Tampa, and broken by Parsons and her people, who'd told him about how The Empress had faked her death. They now had a valuable alley in this war who could feed them secrets, and Zim's information had been useful and comprehensive. That The Empress had an intense hatred for her own people fascinated Dib; that she'd already killed dozens of people in her quest to bring down everything that was the Irken Empire kept the lump in Dib's throat.

Dib's attention was drawn to the main entrance, illuminated by a pair of colossal bronze wall scones atop which rose tall, slender frames. The cycling team had arrived, and as planned, they had come in full biking uniforms: colorful blue and red jerseys covered in Irken symbols, matching bib shorts, and even color-coordinated socks and sneakers. Their mechanics, coaches, and other support personnel wore team shirts and slacks, while the rest of the guests were suited up for this black-tie affair. They all seemed like regular people, aside from the green skin, red eyes and bug like antennae.

The waiters and waitresses began circulating with silver trays of hors d'oeuvers- stuffed mushroom caps, fig and olive tapenade, and chutney baked Brie, according to one waiter. Volker, who'd been standing close to the main entrance, his gaze constantly scanning the growing crowd around the clusters of elegantly appointed tables, ambled over to Dib. "You see that women there?"

Dib tensed and squinted across the room. The sun was beginning to set and the shadows had grown long, but he did see her, a real looker whose lithe form barely tented up her burgundy-colored dress. Her dark hair shimmered in the firelight.

"Is that her?" Dib asked with a gasp.

Volker sighed. "Soon as I nod at the orchestra leader, he'll get them to play for me, and I'll waltz with her."

"She looks way too thin. That's not her."

"No, Dib, of course that's not her. She's just the women I'll dance with."

"So that's how you guys play, eh? Come to rich people's parties and dance with all the hot women? While me and my tea, eat dust and tiptoe around IEDs? Yep, there's a world of difference between the NSA and the United States Army."

"I thought you'd pull up my dossier."

"I did. I know you were a Force Recon Marine, a hardcore operator. I respect that. You got the track record. It's your brother I can't figure out."

"You and everyone else."

"So he only got in because he's your twin. Grim figured you'd have a perfect alibi with him."

"He's come a long way. He was a slacker his whole life. This is pretty amazing for him."

"Well, I hope babysitting your brother doesn't get in the way."

"I'm not babysitting him, Lieutenant. I'm babysitting all of you."

"Whoa, I think you just hurt my feelings."

"All right, enough with the BS." Volker's tone hardened. "Now listen. If The Empress is here, we'll draw her out, just like a black widow from her web. The orchestra is going to play Tchaikovsky's Opus Number Twelve. It's her favorite."

"How do you know?"

Volker snorted. "Opus Twelve is called 'The Empress.'"

"Maybe she hasn't heard it."

"Oh, yes, she has. The NSA and the Third Echelon like to do their own intel gathering, thank you. The report GD-6 is only fragmentary."

"Then I'd appreciate you sharing the rest with us."

"I will, soon as I get authorization."

Dib sighed in disgust over the politics. "Well, all right, Mr. Volker. It's your party for the time being."

"Just get my back, Lieutenant. I might be a little distracted. "Volker drifted off across the hardwood dance floor, toward his unsuspecting dance partner.

Meanwhile, Dib kept his gaze focused on Kluu Maxix, who'd taken a seat at the rectangular main table. All the riders would be sitting in a row, facing the audience, not unlike the seating arrangement for the panel discussion. Perhaps each cyclist would be asked to speak, Dib wasn't sure, but any rate he had a perfect and unobstructed view of the target's cousin, even though the room had grown crowded with dozens of guests now.

"Lieutenant, it's Lakota. Is it okay if we order pizza?"

Dib smiled inwardly- "ordering a pizza" was her way of saying no contacts or anything else worth reporting. "Still clear out there?"

"Good to go," she responded curtly.

A familiar face appeared at the doorway. Riggs. Now it was her turn to join the festivities. God, she looked stunning in her blue dress, matching purse, and heels. The spiky hair had been toned down and softened, and her makeup appeared delicate and expertly applied. She had a folder tucked under her arm as she sashayed across the room and homed in on Maxix. Okay, Dib was a man and couldn't help but gape at her cleavage, though as her command officer he did feel guilty about that. She reached Maxix, said hello, and asked for his autograph.

The young Irken was all too eager to comply, wearing a silly grin. As Riggs continued to chat with him, the orchestra, numbering some thirty musicians, began Opus Number Twelve.

Volker took his lady to the dance floor and began to waltz. They looked dramatic and stunning, and Dib frowned. Volker was taller and better looking and had a better job. He could pick up any women with ease, and his organization seemed to have better intelligence than Dib's.

"Dib, Schleck here," began the team's sniper, positioned in the hills overlooking the castle. Schleck was a bird with a long torso and pointy jaw, the "string bean" Dib had called him on his cheat sheet. But the bird ate like a pig and gained nothing. "Car just pulled up. Got three guys in tuxedos getting out. Looks like the Mafia or the Street Service. You here anything about added security, Lieutenant?"

"Negative. Stand by."

Dib slipped off toward the back of the room, where he discreetly donned his Cross-Com: an earpiece with integrated camera, microphone, and attached monocle that curved around his eye. He tapped a button on the earpiece and whispered, "Cross-Com activated."

Dib's monocle glowed with screens displaying his uplink and downlink channels and icons representing his support elements, among other bits of data. These images were produced by low-intensity laser projecting them through his pupil and onto his retina. The laser scanned horizontally and vertically using a coherent beam of light, and all data was refreshed every second to continually update him.

The system was connected via satellite to the entire United States Army local- and wide area networks (LAN/WAN) so that even President Becerra in the White House could see what he was doing and speak to him directly on the battlefield, which wasn't good according to Dib. That level of Network Centric Warfare- all part Ghostex: Delta 6's Integrated Warfare System- was just a leash of technology. But that's the way the game was played. Fortunately, the old tricks still worked: "Uh, sorry, command, uh, you're breaking up. What was that last transmission? Oh, I think you're signal's dropping..."

He issued a subtle voice command to bring up the camera built into Schleck's Cross-Com. Now he took in the scene from the sniper's point of view. "I see your boys, Schleck. What do you think?"

"I think I don't know what to think. Heads up, though."

"Roger that. They could be team security."

"Okay. Standing by."

Dib removed the Cross-Com and shoved it back into his inner jacket pocket, replacing that earpiece with the one issued to him by the French security force. The guys Schleck had spotted now moved toward the security line and metal detector. They would have to pass through checkpoints before they could get anywhere near the main banquet room. Schleck was just being paranoid, but you wanted your sniper to be hypersensitive to his surroundings.

Dib returned his gaze to the banquet room.

Volker was now wooing the entire crowd with his dance moves; he could probably win a national contest, billing himself as the "dancing spy" after he retired. His partner was fully in lust with him, and again, Dib thought of murder.

Riggs was now surrounded by Maxix and two other cyclists, and if The Empress wanted to get near her cousin, she'd now have to rub shoulders with a very sexy Ghostex operator.

Once more, Dib scrutinized the guests, focusing on each female. He assessed, dismissed, and moved on. He took in a deep breath, and something ached deep down in his gut.

The first salvo of gunfire- originating somewhere outside near the security checkpoint- sent his head jerking back. The second drove him toward the wall and reaching for his pistol as the three men Schleck had spotted burst into the room, brandishing very compact LMGs.

They opened fire.

With a gasp, Dib dove onto the floor and looked up, trying to get a bead on one of the shooters, but the party guests were scrambling in all different directions, left shifting and blocking his view. He had no time to check on Maxix, Riggs, or Volker and only seconds to try to stop these bastards. Finally, Dib had a shot as the heavyset man took a bullet in the chest and tumbled, exposing the shooter behind him. All three men had donned green balaclavas, and one cried in French. "We are the Green Brigade Transnational! We are your doom!"

Dib took out the lead terrorist with a single head shot and was about to shift fire to the next guy when a wave of rounds exploded from the French security guys, so much fire that their wider shots were striking guests cowering just behind the terrorist. Another terrorist flailed under the gunfire, dropped his weapon and thudded to the floor as the screams and groans lifted and the sulfur stench of gunfire overpowered the room.

The third guy suddenly ducked around a table and bolted, vanishing past the doorway.

"Lakota, we got fire, two Tangos down. I'm chasing a third. He might be coming your way!"

"Roger that. Locked and loaded. Schleck? Get ready!"

"Ready!" Cried the sniper.

Dib stole a quick look back, trying to find Riggs and Volker, but he couldn't see them. He darted outside the hall and saw the thug bounding up a stone staircase jet ten yards off to his left. He scissored past dazed and frightened guests, reached the stairs, and took them two at a time, hearing the thumps of the terrorist above as the staircase jogged left. At the same time, he tugged out his Cross-Com and jammed it over his eye and ear.

On the next landing, Dib spotted the terrorist who turned back, weapon ready.

Dib fired a shot, missing the guy, even as the terrorist raised his machine gun. Dib dove back out of the guy's bead as rounds stitched into the stone behind him and ricocheted wildly. Dust swirled as Dib rolled back and squinted.

More footfalls.

The thug was still ascending. Something crashed to the steps above, and Dib rounded another corner, he saw his prey ripping art and tapestries from the wall and dropping them down across the stairs to block the path. Dib slid his way past the tattered painting, it's frame splintering across the stone, and kept on. Meanwhile, the security guard earpiece still jammed in Dib's other ear crackled with Lakota's voice. She had taken over the rest of the team, as she was trained to do, and they were collapsing back in on the castle; however, Schleck would remain in his perch for overwatch.

Dib reached what he believed was the fourth floor landing, where he found a narrow door hanging open. He dodged past it, coming into one of the circular towers.

He glanced up at the spiral staircase constructed of heavy oak planks. _Thud, thud, thud. _His boy was heading up, and unless he'd grown wings or had some other escape plan on the roof, Dib figured he had him. You never run _up _into a building to escape- unless the chopper's up there waiting for you... And that thought made Dib prick up his ears, listening for the whomping of the rotor blades. More gunfire rained down from somewhere above, and Dib crouched and returned fire, just to keep the bastard looking.

Then he resumed his charge upward, growing breathless now, the dress shoes hurting. He longed for his automatic rifle and a little bit of Kevlar to catch stray rounds. As he climbed, he popped out his near empty magazine and slapped home a fresh one. Twenty steps later, a cool breeze filtered down toward him, and as he finally reached the top, he kept low, paused, saw the area was clear, then came into a small room whose single window hung wide open.

Dib spoke into the Cross-Com: "He's on the roof."

The window was barely wide enough to fit a person, and Dib resisted the temptation to stick his head out first to steal a look. The guy could be waiting just on the other side, out of sight and ready to blow Dib's head off. Instead, Dib came at the window from a sharp angle, able to see of anyone was standing just beside the edge. Then he dodged across it and checked the other side. Satisfied he was clear, he leaned forward, pushed the window all the way open, and looked down.

He lost his breath. The guy had leapt some four meters to the angled roofline and was working his way across it toward the adjoining curtain wall. He would leap down just a couple of meters to run across the wall walk- a place from where ancient bowmen had lined up to defend their home and from where modern day scum bags ran to escape.

"I have a shot," said Schleck.

"Hold your fire," Dib snapped. "I think I got him, and we need some answers."

"He has a machine gun and you want to take him alive?" Asked Schleck.

"Oh, I do love a challenge." Dib quipped.

Cursing, he hauled himself through the window, slid out his legs, hung on for dear life, held his breath... And jumped.

He hit the next roofline solidly and turned back, lost his step, and fell onto his rump, nearly dropping his pistol. But at least he wasn't rolling off the roof. He got back up on his hands and knees to spy the thug leaping down to the wall. Dib followed him, reached the edge of the roof, took aim, and fired, striking the thug in the right calf. The guy screamed, rolled back, fired a wild salvo, then kept on, now limping.

Gritting his teeth, Dib levered himself off the roof and jumped to the wall. Now he raced across the stone, the moonlight picking out the guy ahead, and for a moment, Dib thought he had another shot until he realized with a start what was happening. The guy had reached the door to the next tower, but it was locked. Seeing he had no time to try shooting it open, he whirled around and brought his machine gun to bear.

Dib dropped to his gut as the guy started to open fire from about twenty meters away, but after only three shots that struck within a meter of Dib's head, the gun fell silent. Knowing that either the guy's weapon had jammed or his magazine was empty, Dib launched to his feet. The thug could have another weapon, but that didn't occur to Dib until after he began his charge. He cursed and was about to fire when the guy did something quite extraordinary: He dropped his machine gun, raised his hands, and tore off the balaclava, revealing his short, black hair and chiseled jaw. If he was twenty one, that was being generous.

"All right, don't move." Dib ordered in French.

The guy responded in Irken. "You're meaningless to me."

Dib returned in the same language. "You came here looking for her, didn't you."

As Dib neared the guy he suddenly raced to the wall-

"No, no, no!" Screamed Dib as the thug simply threw himself off of the roof. Dib darted to the wall and watched as the guy plummeted toward the mounds of weed encrusted rocks below.

"Oh, man, Lieutenant," called Schleck over the network. "He's on the ground. No movement yet."

"Of course he's not moving. He just took a goddamned nosedive off this castle." Dib winced. Everybody back home had just heard him say that.

And he might as well have cued her. Major Parsons appeared in Dib's HUD. "Lieutenant, Volker reports from inside that Kluu Maxix was shot and killed. We're not sure if the Green Brigade Transnational thought The Empress would be there, but I'm certain they were targeting her cousin for payback. You're in the middle of an international incident, and I want you out of there right now, lest the United States Government be implicated in this mess."

Dib was already heading toward the tower door. "Ma'am, you'll get no argument from me. Would've been nice to take one of them alive- or at least question Maxix."

"Just get to the airport."

"Roger that."

Dib shot out the lock on the tower door. Still locked. He fired again. No luck. He swore. Dead bolt, maybe.

"Schleck, I'm stuck up here. You see another way out?"

"Sir, the blueprints are available on your Cross-Com."

"Schleck, I don't want to think right now. Just find me a way out of here!"

(End Chapter)


	6. Chapter 5

"Whoever said the pen is mightier than the sword obviously never encountered automatic weapons." - General Douglas MacArthur

* * *

Chapter Five

**Banyan Tree Seychelles Resort**

**Mahé Island**

**Republic of the Seychelles**

The Banyan Tree Seychelles was a five star resort situated on the southwestern coastline of Mahé and offering breathtaking views of the Indian Ocean. Chopra had reserved one of the sixty pool villas perched on the hillsides. The brochure had described the rooms as combining contemporary, colonial, and plantation décor with sweeping ceilings; large open verandas; and ethnic woven textiles, and every villa was equipped with all the modern conveniences.

Although Chopra hadn't seen them yet, he'd read about the indigenous arts and crafts gallery, the spa, the health club, the library, the tennis courts, and the mountain biking trails. Upon first glimpse, it was easy to see why this place was worthy of the young sheikh's presence.

Within an hour of his arrival, Chopra met up with Harold Westerdale in the Banyan Tree's La Varangue for an afternoon cocktail. The private investigator's tropical print shirt was soaked, his short, grey hair plastered to his head. The breeze had died off, and stepping onto the veranda was like stepping into a loaf of hot bread. Chopra took the var stool beside the man and ordered a drink while staring out into the turquoise waters.

"It's been a long search," Chopra muttered.

"And we've had a lot of false leads," The man grunted in return.

"But this time you're certain."

"I've already spoken to Tuvia. He knows you're coming. He's willing to meet with you."

"You made contact with a Russian!?" Chopra silently whispered, leaning closer to Harold.

"I did."

"You fool. They'll run now. We'll loose them."

"No, he's scheduled a meeting later for today."

Chopra recoiled in confusion. "Why aren't they scared? Why aren't they running? _They _scheduled a meeting? I'm confused..."

Westerdale pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dragged it across his brow. "I don't know why they did this."

"You should've asked."

"It didn't occur to me. I guess I was too shocked."

"I don't like it."

"I don't like this place. Bloody hot here! Maybe the heat has gotten to this family."

Chopra shrugged.

Hussein Al Maktoum had three sisters: Ara, Kalila, and Warda. Hussein's father, it seemed, had kept having children until he'd produced a son. Warda was the oldest of the group, twenty four now, somehow knew a Russian militant that she got to meet Westerdale. They, like her brother and the Russian military, had done a remarkable job of hiding themselves from the powers that be via a well trained and well paid staff.

So what had changed? Maybe they were running out of money? Or perhaps the young sheikh had just grown tired of hiding? That seemed more likely. Was he aware of the dangers of revealing himself, especially now? The Irkens would want to capture him, influence him, take control of the oil and gold. There was already a huge price on his head as the sole heir to Dubai.

The more Chopra thought about it, the more tense he became. "I need to meet with Tuvia right now."

"They said no."

"Because they're running now, you fool. Why do I pay you? Where is he?"

"He said he will come down to my villa. We'll wait for them. Do as they say. I trust them."

Chopra stiffened in anger and glowered at his drink. He remembered an eighteen year old Warda arguing with her father over an extravagant spending on clothes and jewelry and her fathers grief over the massive phone bills she was incurring by calling friends she had all over the world, all the time, at all hours. Chopra smiled inwardly; the family had more money than they could ever spend in a thousand lifetimes, but her father had been trying to teach her responsibility, and it seemed that their world of lavish homes and exotic cars had made it nearly impossible to do that, unless he became much more of a disciplinarian. Nevertheless, Warda's father was a pushover when it came to his daughters. They'd beg and he'd give in.

Chopra took a sip of his drink and felt a little better. _Let the alcohol relax_ _you_, he told himself. If it was meant to be, it would happen.

Across the bar sat a lean women with short, dark hair. She wore a low cut sundress, and when he looked at her, she averted her gaze and checked her watch. Women that beautiful were always waiting for someone- a man twice as handsome as Chopra, no doubt. He sighed and took a longer pull from his drink

* * *

It was nearly sundown when Warda arrived at Chopra's villa. She was accompanied by a Russian man wearing a grey woolen overcoat that reached just below the knee, covered by a black leather portupeya that ran under one of the red shoulder boards attached to the overcoat, his shins and feet were covered by soft black leather boots that reached just under his knee, covering a pair of black uniform dress pants. The black dress shirt under his grey overcoat had one red collar tab on each side of his collar, his appearance was topped off with a pair of black leather gloves with metal covering the finger tips and the knuckle area, and finally a black visor hat resting on his head with a gold cord running along the visor just below some strange gold symbol center mass of the hat. She did not introduce the man, but his job was quite obvious.

After exchanging a tearful hello, they sat on Chopra's veranda and spoke for a few minutes about the war, the orbital bombardments, the loss of her parents, and Chopra expressed his most sincere condolences. The children had been smuggled out of the country during the first indication that missiles might be launched along with proton fire. their parents had been trying to escape not long after, but the sheikh's plan had been targeted by Irken Air Reapers and blown out of the sky. Warda nodded and pulled back her long, black hair. She was a painfully beautiful women, a flower who'd sprouted up from the heaps of debris that was now her country. "My father trusted you very much, which is why I agreed to this meeting. Tuvia couldn't come. My father once told me he loved you like a brother. He told me he had never met a man as smart or as loyal as you. He told me I should marry you."

Chopra felt his cheeks brow hot. "That's rather shocking."

"Because of the age difference?"

"Because I'm Hindu."our

She nodded her understanding. "He'd had some wine. I think he meant that I should marry a man with your qualities."

"Well, I hope you find him."

"Given the way I must live my life now, that is very, very difficult."

Chopra nodded. "You've done a remarkable job of hiding. It's taken me this long to locate you- and all I want to do is help."

"There are so many that want to manipulate us, especially my brother. The only people who have really been supporting us are you and the Russians."

"I need to speak with him."

"Why?"

"Because it's time for him to lead your country back from the ashes. I want to return to him what is his, and I want to help him rebuild your nation. It's the least I can do to thank your family for all you've done for me. That's all I want. I have no other motivation. I have all the money i could possibly need. This is not about that. This is about restoring a family, an ideal... A country."

Warda began to choke up. She grabbed his hand. "I believe you, Manoj. I believe you."

"Then take me to him."

"Unfortunately, he's not here."

Chopra sighed deeply in disappointment. "According to the information I had-"

"He was only here for a few days. A short holiday. He just returned to London. He's been attending to private prep school there, at my insistence. My other sisters have a place nearby."

"Excellent. He must continue his education."

"He doesn't exactly agree. I think you'll find him an interesting- and challenging- young man. That's all I can say about my brother. We disagree over many subjects."

"I understand. Well, then, can you give him my contact information? I'll leave for London in the morning." Chopra reached for his wallet and withdrew his card.

She rose and accepted the card. "I will. I'll have him call you. It was wonderful to see you again, Manoj. And I hope this dream of rebuilding our country comes to pass. I'm tired of hiding."

He glanced around. "It's not entirely unpleasant."

"No, but the company..." She glanced at the Russian who adjusted the holster attached to the belt wrapped around his stomach.

Chopra smiled wanly. "I see."

She offered to have dinner with him, but he declined. It would be a form of torture he could not endure. He left and returned to his villa, where he sat in the living room, a computer balanced on his lap, and began the process of chartering a private jet back to London.

* * *

A short time later, Chopra had dinner with Westerdale and shared the good news. The Brit reminded Chopra of the bonus attached to his contact, and Chopra assured him that he'd receive it, perhaps with more extra. Westerdale had been scanning the news, and by his second glass of wine he'd launched into one of his trademark tirades about world events.

Argentina's new offshore oil discoveries, with the aid of Irken technology, were a windfall of the highest magnitude for the Irken Empire. The thick ooze pumping out of the Argentine ocean bed wasn't the sweet crude of the Middle East, but in a universe starving for oil, the industrial world's lifeblood, there's be no difficulty passing the excessive refining costs on the Europeans. So yes, Westerdale, said, the Irkens had found yet another way to screw over the Brits. The new fields kept product moving through the worlds markets, filled Irk's coffers, and reduced the demands on Irk's own oil production and reserves.

The Irken Empire's growing financial power unnerved Westerdale and Chopra and increased Chopra's sense of urgency in helping the young sheikh put Dubai back on the map. The Irken's had no idea how vast Dubai's secret reserves were, and Chopra wished he could see the look on Tallest Red and tallest Purple's faces when some European clients began to turn away oil sales in favor of doing businesses with Dubai and other emirates.

Westerdale and Chopra finished dinner, and as Chopra was about to leave, he spotted that same women again; lithe muscular, short black hair. She was eating alone this time. Oh, how he wished he had the nerve to go over and speak to her. But he was leaving in the morning. And nothing would come of it, of course. She was probably a full head taller than him, and he was at least ten years her senior. He sighed as she took a phone call, then he bid Westerdale a good evening. With a full belly and a renewed longing for female companionship, Chopra began the uphill hike to his villa.

* * *

The Empress could have abducted her victim within the first hour of his arrival in the Seychelles, but she planned to study him for a while. What was he doing here? What did he want? She wasn't foolish enough to blindly take orders from her employers. She was never the opportunist.

Patti had said that Chopra was the key to getting inside Dubai's vaults. The _Ganjin _wanted the locations of Dubai's secret oil reserves and gold stored in one of the vaults. That was simple enough, but The Empress believed that Chopra was involved in something else that both intrigued and unsettled her.

She'd already dusted his villa with nanobots so she'd be able to track him; consequently, she would keep him on a leash for a while, let him wander, let him provide a few more answers that could prove useful. She'd been in the hills near his villa and had electronically observed and listened in on his meeting with the women. She had learned via a surveillance photograph sent back to the _Ganjin _that the women was Warda Al Maktoum, daughter of the royal family in Dubai. Now Chopra was heading back to London in the morning to continue his mission to restore old Dubai. It was hard to fathom that he had no ulterior motives. Those kind of people rarely existed in The Empress's world. At once she admired and pitied him.

And she resisted the temptation to move in now. Let him go to London. Let him make contact with the young sheikh he'd been struggling to find all these years. And certainly any more information about him was better kept from the _Ganjin. _

She leaned back on the sofa of her own villa, staring at the signal superimposed over the satellite map on her computer. With a click she brought up views from the micro cameras she'd planted in his villa. Chopra was still there, preparing to settle down for the night. She would do the same, perhaps, she hadn't slept in some twenty years. She'd already hacked into his computer and had his itinerary. she could relax for the moment. She closed her eyes, and they were there. Always there. Her husband. Her brothers.

And now her cousin Kluu.

He was too young at just sixty years old and just a victim, and she was entirely responsible for his death. They killed him to hurt her, the demoralize her, to weaken her... So they could move on. But they had no idea what they had just done. Her rage was now a fiery maw that would consume them.

Oh, yes, she had felt certain that the Irken Empire had hired the Brigade. The terrorists had become too good at tracking her. Tak was training and equipping them, letting them get their hands dirty while the smug bastard sat in her office and stuffed her face with gourmet food.

Revenge would not being back the dead, of course. Revenge was foolish, she knew. So she no longer called it revenge. She called it justice- for the future generations of the Irken people. The richer her flag became, the more corrupt grew its leaders.

It would end.

It had to end.

She was with her husband again, holding his hand while he lay in the hospital bed. The chemotherapy had turned him into a pale skeleton, but behind those sunken cheeks and hollow eyes was the same man she loved.

"Don't cry," He'd told her.

"They did this to you."

"No, I did this to me. I chose. But it's okay. This life is only temporary, and we'll be together again."

"They knew this would happen. They didn't care. They sent my brother in there. And they sent you to clean the mess. None of us have the choice of anything!"

"Don't be angry. You have a beautiful spooch. Keep it warm for me."

She laid on her head on his chest and cried.

The Empress took in a long breath and sighed as she opened her eyes. Her wineglass was nearly empty. As she sat up and reached toward the bottle, the door of her villa smashed open and was split in two.

The man... Irken... Who appeared behind the shattering wood was a stocky Storm Elite wearing his armor and a broad grin. That he found her here was a testament to his tenacity because she'd been excruciatingly careful.

But here he was, nonetheless, Irken Storm Elite, Battle Captain of the 303rd Battalion, Storr, old IMID colleague and double agent, new nemesis, with the barrel of a PRV-225 pointing in the direction of her head.

"Hello, Jul."

She snorted. "Hello, Storr. You could have knocked."

(End Chapter)


	7. Chapter 6

"If the enemy is in range, so are you." - Human Infantry Journal

* * *

Chapter Six

**Banyan Tree Seychelles Resort**

**Mahé Island**

**Republic of the Seychelles**

To say that Dib had grinned until it hurt would be an understatement. They'd sent him to a French paradise, where, well, the escargot hit the fan (Ba-dum-tss), but then he'd learned they were sending him to a tropical paradise. The irony was killing him. He barely made enough money to vacation in these spots, yet he was getting all expenses paid trips courtesy of the American taxpayers.

He hoped his dumb luck would continue.

Parsons had leaned hard on the captured Irken IMID Commander, Chieftain Major General Zim, and he knew enough about The Empress to offer small details that might betray her whereabouts. She traveled under assumed identities, of course, and had access to some of the best document forging techniques in the universe via her old IMID contacts and other unknown resources. She was also able to defy most electronic ID systems.

But in the end, she was an Irken, still susceptible to Irken impulse, to weakness, to using her mother's initials as a prompt for devising her aliases- a tidbit only the Irken General would know. The eccentricity had led the NSA and Army intelligence to location her in the Seychelles. Parsons herself had checked the airport security camera footage, and voila, there she was, The Empress, wearing a tennis cap and shorts, carrying a sling bag. There was something haughty and audacious about her using commercial airliners. With all of her resources, Dib would have considered her moving about on private jets; perhaps she wasn't as well connected or well funded as others thought, or perhaps a private jet might have caused too much attention to her.

Dib, the Phoenix's, and the rest of his team were en route within an hour after receiving their fist lead. And by the time they neared the island, they had pinpointed her exact location.

They infiltrated the resort via a borrowed yacht anchored offshore, and dressed in nondescript black fatigues and heavily armed, they were ready to take The Empress alive. The team was fanning out, about to set up full surveillance of her villa.

Dib was curious as to why she was here. Her cousin had just been killed, and the higher-ups assumed she'd remain in Europe to exact payback on the terrorists. Maybe she was linking up with someone on the island who could help her.

as he and Lakota shifted through a dense forest running parallel to the hillside trail, the call came in from Tom Volker: "We've just run an infrared scan on the hillside. I don't believe this. It's loaded with targets. I just pulled up satellite. we have nine armed operators already in place. What the hell is this, Dib?"

"I'll find out." Dib crouched down and took a deep breathe. "Ghostex Team, this is Ghostex Lead. Hold positions. Hammer, this is Ghostex Lead, over."

"Go ahead, Ghostex Lead," Replied Parsons, her image appearing on his HUD.

"Does the old cliché 'we've got company' mean anything to you right now?"

"Scanning."

Dib sighed in frustration. "Be nice if we knew who they were..."

"Not sure yet. Let's feel them out."

"Roger that. Ghostex Team, split and shadow those operators. I want you breathing down their necks, but don't engage. Not yet. Schleck, you hold back and get ready to do your thing. Get your bead on that front door, over."

"Copy your last, Lieutenant," Replied Schleck. "A guy just broke down her front door. He's moving inside!"

Gunfire erupted across the hillside, all kinds of fire: single shot, automatic, the crack of a carbine and even plasma fire. Dib began cycling through the camera views on his people as he sent Lakota off toward The Empress's villa about a hundred yards up the hill.

"Ghostex Team, hold fire! Do not give up your positions! Let them give up theirs!"

"They just fired at a hotel security guard. He's down," Reported Noboru.

"I think they have infrared on us," Cried Daugherty. "Radar, satellite, the whole nine yards! Might need to engage!"

Dib swore under his breath and cried, "Gun and run if you have to, but keep it moving!"

"He's right," Riggs chimed in. "I got one in my sights now. They have headsets like ours and other systems I can't identify. Defiantly not Irken though. They're humans."

Dib gritted his teeth and began cycling through the operator images piped in via his Cross-Com. He was trying to do the right thing as team leader: obtain as much information as possible before reacting to the situation.

Aw, hell. He took off running.

* * *

Chopra had been watching the highlights of a soccer game and was lifting the remote toward the set, about to turn it off. He's set up his air travel to London and had been well- until he'd heard the found of gunfire coming from the hills near his villa. He immediately called Westerdale, who was already panicking and crying that they should "Get the bloody hell out of there."

"We should just stay here and take cover," Chopra had argued.

"You fool. If they come for Warda and take her, she'll talk. Then they'll come for you. The only way you can help Hussein is to save yourself!"

"All right."

Thankfully, Chopra had traveled light and his bag was already packed, except for his morning clothes. He gathered his belongings, flinched at the sound of more gunfire, then, holding his breath, went running from his villa. he longed to go after Warda and prayed they wouldn't hurt her, but Westerdale was right: If Chopra didn't make contact with Hussein, then Dubai would never rise again and that would be a tragedy. As much as it pained him, he kept on toward Westerdale's villa. The pops, booms and plasma discharge continued from the jungle above him.

The dimly lit trail took him to the main entrance and motorway, where two taxi drivers had climbed into their cars and were keeping low, their worried gazes turned up toward the hills. Between the damp stone and his own excitement, Chopra wound up slipping and falling as he neared the first car. He cried out, felt a throbbing in his elbow, but pulled himself back up and spotted Westerdale coming from a second path and hustling toward him.

The Brit waved and called out to Chopra.

Another exchange of gunfire thundered in the hills, stealing Chopra's breath.

He was dizzy by the time he fell into the backseat and the cabdriver sped away. He glanced over to Westerdale, who shook his head and said, "You're in over your head." He laughed at the end of his own sentence.

"I know. But this is the right thing to do," Chopra said, hardening his tone.

"You're an eccentric."

Chopra shook his head. "I just want what's right."

"Then go to London. Wait for his call. Hopefully she spoke to him before they attacked."

Chopra threw his head back against the seat, removed his glasses, and messaged his weary eyes. "You're staying here."

"I'm what!?" Westerdale hopped up in his seat, now facing Chopra.

"You heard me. You're staying. I want to know about Warda and the Russian. I want to know if she's safe."

Westerdale released a string of epithets, then demanded a larger bonus, and Chopra agreed.

* * *

The Empress mused it was difficult to have tricks up her sleep while wearing a short sleeved shirt; however, she'd grown used to being chased and took nothing for granted. Her tricks were born of experience and electronics, and there was nothing magical about them. They were tools of the trade, and she knew how to use them.

So when Storr rudely smashed in the door to The Empress's villa, said his hello, and thought he was about to hold her at gunpoint, The Empress simply rasied her hands and rolled her wrist twice, and the transmitter in her custom made watch sent a signal to the detonator.

_Three, two, one. _

The resounding boom from the doorway sent Storr ducking reflexively-and that's all The Empress needed: one simple diversion via an explosive she'd planted within the first hour of her arrival. In fact, she had booby trapped the entire place- but for some reason the electronic surveillance warning system she had set up in the walkway failed to alert her of Storr's approach. Storr was crafty... he more than likely found someway to jam the signal. He was clever when it came to things like that.

Her sidearm, the one given to her by the taxicab driver who'd been bought by the _Ganjin, _was beneath the sofa pillow. She wrenched it out, was about to fire point blank at Storr, but he'd whirled to face a figure wearing a grey overcoat with a black belt wrapping around his waist and chest and over his shoulder, with some sort of black uniform under it who stood in the shattered doorway.

The figured head was almost fully covered, his mouth and nose covered with some type of breathing mask, the top of his head with a black visor hat, his left eye shielded by an electric monocle. And a high tech light machine gun that none of the two could identify balanced in the combatant's grip.

"Hold there!" He cried, and his distinctively male voice confirmed he was a Russian speaker, definitely from the origin from the language.

Storr began to raise his arms- but abruptly dropped to his gut. He then rolled, about to fire at the man in the doorway.

Seeing that, the man in the doorway squeezed the trigger, spitting out 7.62mm rounds at a very high rate of fire, near 1000RPM by the sounds of it, but Storr rolled once more, behind cover. At the same time, The Empress fired two round, striking the man in the chest. The man ceased fire and ripped the two bullets out of his overcoat, aimed his weapon and squeezed the trigger again, sending The Empress into cover. The gunfire ceased. A heartbeat later The Empress was out from cover and lunging for the back door, on the other side of the small kitchen.

Storr screamed after her, but more gunfire erupted and rounds punched into the wall as the strange man in the bullet proofed coat opened up again. The Empress snatched her sling bag from the counter, then tore open the door, rounds tearing into the frame beside her. She bounded outside, checked left and right, then sprinted into the forest behind the villa.

* * *

Dib arrived in the doorway, just behind Lakota, who reported that she'd seen a women inside who could have been The Empress- but she also reported an Irken and another man in an identified uniform there, too. Parsons and her folks would already be searching for the man's identity and the uniform configuration since Lakota's Cross-Com had recorded images of the entire scene.

as the rest of his team chimed in, Dib rushed through the villa, falling in behind Lakota, who'd said the women had escaped out back, the Irken trailing her. They burst through the rear door, paused, and heard brush shifting in the shifting in the forest.

"We've got two men who've just climbed into a taxi," Reported Schleck. "Old guys. Probably just tourists running scared. All right, I've got satellite. Two runners in the jungle now, heading down toward the beachfront road. Watch it, though, Lieutenant. Those other operators are coming around to cut us off."

"Good job, Schleck. Keep the play by play coming. I like your style."

"Roger that, Lieutenant!"

"All right, Ghostex Team, pull up those other guys in your HUD. See if you can flank them while Lakota and I punch straight through toward the beach. We're taking that main road around the resort."

The responses came in, and not a second after the last one, a women's scream came from the bungalow ahead. Dib rushed up to the small quarters which were heavily draped in vines and foliage. He kept tight to the wall and hand signaled for Lakota to head around the other side.

The Cross-Com automatically zoomed in on two heat sources around the corner: a bigger figure lay on the ground, and knelt down beside him holding his hand as he leaned his back against a rock was another person, both glowing a mottled orange-red. Dub hustled forward, came through the big fronds, then lifted his palm in truce.

The women had long, dark hair, and though the light was faint, Dib thought she might be Middle Eastern. Her dress did not indicate that, though; she appeared very Western in a T-shirt and cut off jeans. The heavyset man lying on his back against a large rock wore an unfamiliar woolen grey trench coat with a black belt wrapping around his stomach and chest, under it was a black uniform. He wore a black visor hat and an HUD like Dib's, he ripped a breathing mask off his face and breathed heavily. He clinched his hand over his leg that was pooling with blood, a heavy looking weapon lay just to his right.

The young women screamed again as Dib approached. The man laying down let go of his wound and grasped the handle of the weapon raising it and taking aim.

"Whoa! Hold on! I'm not here to hurt you."

Gunfire raked along the ground, drawing up on the women. Dib threw himself behind a tree as the man in the overcoat got up on one knee, shielding the girl form oncoming fire as he opened up his weapon into the woods with Dib. Lakota came around and added her quartet of fire to the fray. Dib's Cross-Com picked out three targets, outlines of each flashing in red, yet all three broke off suddenly, as though they knew they were being watched.

Just then Riggs and Copeland ran forward, out of breath. Dib shouted for Riggs to stay with the girl, while Copeland dropped to the unknown uniform's side who dropped his weapon and groaned in pain, Copeland sloughed off his medical pack, pulled up the overcoat and checked the leg.

"Plasma burn." Copeland looked to the man. "Looks bad."

The girl reached for the unknown man's shoulder and grasped it.

"Do you speak English?" Dib asked her, realizing that should have been the first question he asked.

"Yes."

"What's your name? And who's this?" He said pointing at the unknown uniform.

"Warda, and-"

The male cut her off. "Major Tuvia. Spetsnaz Elite, Battle Captain of the Ninth Company."

"Spetsnaz..." _'This isn't good.' _Dib thought. "Both of you, get back inside. Don't come out till we come back."

"Are you working for Manoj?" Asked Warda.

"Who?"

"Never mind."

"Come on," said Riggs as Tuvia helped her to her feet. "You need to go."

"Get them in there, then get back to me," said Dib, tipping his head off to Lakota to join them. "Wait a minute. Riggs? You stay with them." The women knew something, and Dib decided he'd question her along with the Major later.

Riggs nodded. "On it, Lieutenant."

Lakota cocked a brow. "Can you keep up with me?"

Dib snorted.

Suddenly, she was gone, bolting down the road.

He cursed and charged after.

Fifty yards later, sweat was already pouring off Dib's face. Lakota could run, he'd give her that, and she showed no sign of slowing. They darted by the main building, its light casting a faint glow over a jagged fence of palms, and then they followed the narrow road as it curved down again toward the beach. Dib was losing his breath. Lakota seemed comfortable, hardly panting. As she tried to kill him with her pace, he divided his attention between the road and his HUD, checking on the two figures and their escape.

"Lieutenant, Lakota, hold up there. Take cover!" Schleck finished his warning a second before the tree line erupted with gunfire.

Targets flashed red in Dib's HUD, reticles zooming in on red targets wearing civilian clothing.

Dib was down, and he and Lakota were thinking the same thing as rounds tore through the bushes on either side of them, splintering limbs and echoing loudly in the hills. They reached into their web gear and withdrew one of their new L12-7 heat-seeking grenades shaped like small missiles.

"'Nades away!" Dib cried.

They lobbed their grenades, and within a second of leaving their hands small fins popped out, tiny engines ignited, and the device's explosive payload were about to be delivered on time, one target, strike three, you're out!

The grenades shot off toward the tree line with a whoosh, whoosh, boom-boom!

The gunfire dropped off to nothing.

"You got em'," Cried Schleck.

Lakota tugged down her balaclava and flashed Dib a smile. They high fived and got back on their feet. This time Dib took lead, but he felt her there, right on his back, and he wondered if she was thinking he was too slow. He'd show her the "old man" could still run and bounded off down the long dark stretch, with the sounds of gunfire echoing in the distance.

* * *

Stones and scrub pockmarked the rugged dunes above the beach, and The Empress turned off the main road and ducked behind a row of larger, waist high rocks, her tennis shoes quickly filling with sand. She wove through rows of tropical plants and coconut trees better known by the locals as _coco de mer_, found a ditch behind one particularly thick patch of hibiscus or something akin, and hunkered down there, unmoving, to catch her breath.

She swallowed.

Damn.

Storr and the SED had come this close to capturing her. First France now this. What was wrong with her? Was she, as Patti suggested, getting too careless? Too tired? Too sick of it all?

Now Storr would have all the IMID's toys at his disposal: infrared tracking, portable radar, nanobot trackers, you name it. He may have already dusted her with the bots. She could not rest for much longer.

Well, at least she'd tagged Chopra. All she had to do now was escape from Storr. But who was that man? Could he be a Russian member of the Green Brigade Transnational? And if the Brigade was involved, why would he attack Storr? Then again, maybe the Irkens never told them about Storr, so the right hand didn't know what the left was doing... Perhaps the Americans and the Europeans had knew teams after her now? Or dare she say the Russian Federation was sending military forces to capture her?

She checked her own radar and saw that Storr had turned south up the main road running parallel with the beach. No, he had not dusted her, not yet.

Her GPS map showed the Lazare Picault hotel lying to the north. From there she'd hail a taxi. There would be no flying off the island. Storr already had the airport under his lock and key. As much as she dreaded needing the help, The Empress would need to call Patti to arrange for an exit by sea. She shivered at the thought of being surrounded by that much water.

But one last task.

From her sling bag she withdrew a battery operated device that resembled a cell phone. She switched it on and plugged in her height and weight, and the device began to produce a heat source that would be detected by an IR sensor and draw attention. From a distance, the source could be mistaken for a person, although the closer you got, the more readily identifiable the unit became. She left the decoy in the bush and trotted off, nearly running straight into a tall man dressed in a grey overcoat, black uniform, black hat and black belt, like the man back at the villa. He had some strange energy weapon aimed at her chest.

The man spoke in Russian, obviously his native tongue. "He runs that way, I run this way. I find you. He doesn't."

"Oh, really?" She asked, the Russian rolling off her tongue and felt like she was speaking with an old friend.

"He wants us to take you alive."

"You're Spetsnaz Elite?" She asked.

"One of the best."

"But you work for Storr? An Irken? Then you're just a dog working for money."

He took a step forward. "I don't work for your kind," He spit at her feet. "I meant the top. Now put your gun in the sand."

"I like my gun right here, in my hand."

"Then I'm going to shoot you."

"I thought you were taking me alive."

"I'm going to shoot you in the leg. You have nice legs. Too bad."

He was in the middle of his grin when she shot him in the chest so quickly that she even gasped. He fell to the ground with a thud. She ran off as she swore through a chill.

The Russian slowly got to his feet, faking his death and pulling the round out of his chest. He took aim, held the trigger down, a bright ball of blue energy began to build up in between the two prongs maybe a foot apart from one another on the end of the rifle like weapon. The weapon gave off a humming sound and The Empress turned around, and dropped to her gut as the bright ball of blue gave off a bright glow. It zipped over her with a strange hum, impacted the ground maybe ten meters from her position and kicked up sand and dirt twelve feet into the air with a thunderous boom.

She rose to her feet, took aim with her side arm and pulled the trigger again.

_Click. _

The top of the weapon slid back and she thought, _'Oh, Dookie.' _As she waited for the Russian to fire again. But what he did surprised her, he lowered the weapon and let go off it with one hand, letting it hang loose in his right one as he yelled, "Run little girl! Come back when you have a bigger gun, I need a better challenge, capturing you right now would be too easy!" He began to manically laugh as he started off in the opposite direction.

She couldn't believe it. He was just letting her go? But she now knew that the Russian Federation had cocky Elite Spetsnaz teams with big weapons and superior armor after her.

She took a deep breath.

Turned around.

And ran.

(End Chapter)


	8. Chapter 7

"The option of taking our own lives no longer belongs to us. Once we start using these weapons, we owe it to the people who fought and bled along side us, to continue living. Even if it means living the rest of our lives without the use of our limbs... We owe them that much." - Command Sergeant Major Akim Dyalgo

* * *

Chapter Seven

**Banyan Tree Seychelles Resort**

**Mahé Island**

**Republic of the Seychelles **

"It's coming from right there," Said Lakota, pointing toward a narrow patch of shrubbery cutting across the back side of the dunes like a jagged scar.

They'd been drawing up slowly on the heat source in an attempt to ambush the operator lying in wait. The Cross-Com was still unable to ID friend or foe and superimpose a targeting reticle over the person.

As they drew closer, the signature got weird.

"Fire?" Dib guessed as they shifted farther up into the dunes, then crouched even lower as they neared the source, now glowing brilliantly in their HUDs.

"No, it's not fire," Said Lakota. " No scent. No smoke. I think I know what we have here..." She moved ahead, leaned over, and picked up the device in her gloved hand.

Dib hurried up beside her. "Wow, decoy."

"Just to slow us down."

"Schleck?" Dib called. "Launch the drone."

"Roger that."

From his vantage point high in the hills, Schleck would activate and send airborne one of Ghostex: Delta 6's latest UAV51-A Cypher drones, no larger than the size of a Frisbee and equipped with a comprehensive array of high tech sensors, including chemical and radiation detection. Dib had been holding off to use the device because he had never had much luck with hand deployable UAVs back in the regular army... He'd raise his arm... Throw it... It would hit the ground and break, and he'd just stand there and stare at it. His friends always had luck using them, but the Gods of technology never smiled upon him. And worse, after each mission, he'd have to answer for the cost of the broken equipment. It didn't matter whether if was the operator of the drone or one of his people. He had no luck, but that excuse wasn't good enough for his superiors.

But what the hell, he might as well take the gamble...

"Drone away," Reported Schleck.

As Dib and Lakota set out once more, following foot prints that still held the slightest trace of a heat source, Schleck said the drone was closing on potential enemy operators. There were, according to his count, six men remaining. Although the drone's tiny motor was relatively silent, Dib knew if Schleck took the drone in too close, one or more of the bad guys would go skeet shooting. He warned Schleck about that.

"Roger that, Lieutenant. Got news on the primary target and pursuer. They've split up. One's heading north, the other south. Not sure who's who, though... Would you like me to follow one?"

"Negative. Stay with the group of six and report back."

"You got it, Lieutenant."

"There's a hotel to the north," said Lakota, reading something in her monocle, assumedly her GPS.

"North it is."

They followed the dunes, the heavy sand beginning to slow them. In the distance, lights from the next hotel glimmered, and it wasn't two minutes later when Dib heard a faint rush of air and knew what was happening.

"Get down!"

He grabbed Lakota by the back of her shirt collar and drove her onto her back, into the sand. The explosion tore into the dunes behind them.

"Lieutenant? I'm sorry, I lost them for a minute. But now you got two guys on your six, one hundred meters out," Said Schleck. "Cross-Com says that grenade was a Russian 98B. These guys are packing the hot stuff."

Dib's head was still spinning from the drop and subsequent burst. Yet he and Lakota got to their feet, ran for cover and aimed their weapons. Targeting reticles began to float across their HUDs.

The enemy operators, wearing desert khaki uniforms, black armor, knee pads, helmets with matching balaclavas and combat boots, advanced, drawing up on the next dune. For a moment, Dib got a bead on one, his reticle flashing crimson. He squeezed off a salvo, but the guy dropped quickly back behind the rocks.

"They're trying to slow us down and keep us busy while they get The Empress," Said Lakota.

Dib answered through a groan, "I know."

Two more more guys came out of the bushes to the engaging Russians left, one wearing the same desert khaki uniform, the other wearing digital flora with olive drab armor and knee pads. They started yelling something in Russian as the first two soldiers released a vicious salvo. Dib peeked out, catching the digital flora soldier pulling a hard case off of his back, his partner setting a weapon up on a tri-pod.

"They're setting up! We're pinned!" Dib called on his Cross-Com.

Before he was able to hear anyone respond, the sound of a Gatling type weapon sounded and rounds punched into rock and sand, making short work of hard material. Lakota ducked lower and caught the first two engagements moving left to flank. "Lieutenant!" She cried.

Dib fixed his position, less dangerous than the last one, peeking up a bit more to get a clear vision. Moments like this sometimes came at him in an almost underwater slow motion. But sometimes they came in a hyperactive way, as though the world were suddenly being fast forwarded, the contrast jacked up to 100, every sense tingling- which was how he viewed the battle zone now.

He shouted to Lakota and they bolted around the rocks to the next ditch, rounds stitching the ground behind them, at the foot of a palm covered with heavy rocks, they dropped again, like baseball players diving for home plate. A rumbling concussion shook the ground as AK-200 fire erupted from the two flanking Russians. Within the next heartbeat, another explosion erupted, shattered stone began raining all over them in a moment that seemed torn from the Book of Revelations. The 98B wasn't quite as sophisticated as Ghostex: Delta 6's grenades, but the device left a nasty by product- if it didn't kill you, it dusted you with nanobot trackers so the next grenade could better lock on.

Knowing this, Dib burst up from his cover and ran directly at the rock face behind which stood the flanking Russians. This wasn't some foolhardy attempt at bravado, or some selfless act to earn himself a posthumous Medal of Honor.

Dib just knew how to kill this guy: Fight fire with fire.

Dib had his own seeking grenade in his hand, ready to let it rip when a voice boomed over his Cross-Com. "Prekratit' ogon'! Brosayte oruzhiye!"

The voice in Russian called out a _'Cease fire.' _

And quite suddenly, the Russian's let go of their triggers, dropped the magazines in their weapons, pulled the charging handles and walked out into the open, throwing their sidearms on the ground as they raised their hands. Confusion filled Dib's face as he deactivated the seeking grenade, Lakota slowly stood up from behind cover and looked over to Dib, "Lieutenant?"

The man who introduced himself as Major Tuvia back at the villa limped out of the bushes, sidearm grasped in his left hand. We waved in the direction of the hotel. "Go!" He said in a Russian accent.

"Come on!" Lakota hollered as she started off.

"On my way!" Dib answered before raising a hand at the Major, who quickly struck one of the Russians behind the helmet with his hand and yelling something in Russian. Dib started to jog to catch up to Lakota.

"Lieutenant, I just spotted the primary target," Said Schleck. "I know you said to stick with the bad guys, but I just put the drone in tight- and it's definitely her."

* * *

The Empress reached the short wrought iron fence that marked the perimeter of the hotel grounds. To her right lay the long, circular drive leading up the valet station and the taxis. To her left stood the entrance to a labyrinthine series of walkways between clusters of bungalows not unlike those found at her own hotel. It was quite posh and welcoming.

She paused a second, panting, heard the curious hum from above, then glanced up. She cursed in Irken as she frowned at the tiny UFO marking her every move. No, this wasn't Storr's doing, was it? The Americans liked to play with these little surveillance robots, but so did the Russians.

She drew her reloaded silenced pistol, steadied herself, and then with a quick of her torso she aimed up, expecting the drone to engage in some sort of evasive maneuver.

It didn't.

She fired.

Only after she hit it dead on did the thing veer left, its motor whining as though it'd been stripped of all grease. She took another shot, dead on again, and the thing plunged unceremoniously behind the tree canopy.

Thump. Crash.

It hit the ground somewhere in the forest below. She made a short snort and sprinted up the driveway, toward the valet station. There, she paid one taxicab to head to the airport, while she took another cab to rendezvous with Patti's people, whom she'd called en route.

The cabdriver was lean, dark haired who seemed more rodent than human. He glanced back and gave her a salacious grin, in a French accent he asked, "Are you on vacation?"

She almost smiled.

* * *

By the time Dib and Lakota reached the Lazare Picault hotel, Schleck had already reported two cars had left approximately five minutes prior. One was heading toward the airport; the other had taken the beach road northward and had then turned into a heavily wooded area, at which time the satellite had lost it. He'd added that the remaining Russian operators had fallen back toward the coastline, collapsing on the head operator, who'd gone south.

"Ghostex Lead, this is Hammer," Called Parsons. "We've IDed the men in The Empress's villa. One: Battle Captain Storr, an Irken Storm Elite. He's an Irken spy and double agent. He worked with The Empress in the IMID. We've reason to believe the IMID had hired him to capture her. Two: Major Tuvia Batrutinov, commanding officer of a shady Russian Federation special forces group we've encountered in the past. Prokofiev Delta had an equal, if not greater chance in catching The Empress than you Lieutenant."

"Wonderful. So now we've got complication. The Major saved our behinds back there. Are they secondary targets? Can we take them out?"

"If Prokofiev Delta engages in anyway, you can return fire. Storr? Absolutely. However, if you can take Storr alive, he'd be another valuable asset to us."

"What about the Major?"

"Good luck with that." Parsons replied sarcastically.

"Roger that. I'm thinking now she sent a decoy car to the airport. She'd never go there, but now we've lost her in the forest up north. I don't have any choice. We need to head up there and engage in a ground search."

Dib ordered the rest of his team to divide, pursue Storr and track down Prokofiev Delta's commanding officer, save for Riggs, who was still holding watch over Warda. Meanwhile, he and Lakota slipped up behind one of the taxicab drivers at the hotel. Trembling over the sight of their weapons, the driver was more than happy to oblige.

They drove up the narrow road, the cab;s headlights playing over nothing more than thick foliage to their left, more dunes to their right. Were it not for work, Dib would've had time to admire the spectacular sheet of stars playing over the night sky. Instead, he kept his attention focused on his HUD and the imaged coming in from other team member cameras. The foot chase down to the shoreline was going nowhere fast, and Dib realized Storr and Prokofiev Delta had such an appreciable lead that if they were making a water exit, they'd reach their craft well before his people could close the gap. Still, you never knew, so he kept the bulldogs running.

He and Lakota eventually ordered the driver to pull over along a secluded part of the road. They zippercuffed his wrists and ankles and left him sitting in the sand. Someone would pick him up by morning. Dib even gave him some cash for his troubles, which rasied the drivers gap toothed smile. Dib and Lakota took off, reached the jungle near The Empress's last location, and spent the next thirty minutes combing the area. They did, in fact, find her cab- or rather what was left of it... Half of the vehicle looked as if it had been vaporized and the smell of burning fuel and metal filled the air. It's driver was standing about two meters from the wreck, Dib took aim at the driver and ordered him on his knees and demanded answers.

His gerbil like face tightened into a knot. "I dropped her off. Right after some crazy guy blasted my vehicle in half. That's all I know. She paid me double and I took cover while she exchanged a shots with some guy and they ran off to the end of the trail shooting at each other s'more."

"Where does the trail lead?" Asked Lakota.

"There's a small boat launch."

Dib and Lakota raced back to their own taxi and roared up the trail. The path was barely wide enough for a car, and large fronds dragged across their roof and doors. Within five minutes they swung to the right and simply ended at a tall stand of palms. Beyond them lay a meager dock rising crookedly against the dark sea.

Empty. They'd missed her.

Only a downed Prokofiev Delta member with an AK-200, but no energy weapon to confirm the cause of the cab's vaporization.

Parsons confirmed The Empress had made a get away on a small boat and was met by a larger, high speed cigar boat that was now streaking away south toward Madagascar. They could follow the boat until it reached the coast, but after that, there was no telling where she'd go. Parsons said she'd seek authority to access one of the space based laser platforms to order a strike on the boat's engine.

Meanwhile, Dib and Lakota would return to the hotel to pick up Riggs and question the women.

* * *

The Empress was on the phone with Patti, and she'd learned that the second decoy had gone off without a hitch. At the moment, she was lying in the taxi cab's trunk. That close call with the Americans and Russians had left her breathless, but the cabbie had done his job and she would reward him handsomely, once they got back to the hotel.

Satellites and portable drones made your straightforward escapes all the more complicated, and the routes required stealth, cunning, double back, bribery, and whatever other incantations you could conjure of- including some low tech trunk smuggling that made her feel like a drug runner of illegal boarder crosser. She really did feel bad for the lady she paid to go in the other cab, that had been ripped in half by a Russian and then shot at and chased.

Thus, when it came to escape, she had no ego.

That she had foiled them all was enough. The _how _never amounted to much anyway. You did what you had to do.

She opened the truck's pass through and called out to the driver, "Nice job!"

"It's okay. I'm not scared of them. I hope you do not lie to me. I want the rest of the money."

"You'll have it when we get back. You'd better spend it on your family- and not hookers and booze."

"I will. I promise you."

She had no plans to double cross the driver. She'd learned he had a family and two small daughters, even if he was lusting after his passengers. She would keep her word. She closed her eyes and remembered the promise she had made to her husband at the moment of his passing: _I will avenge you._

She started off toward the airport entrance, she stopped for a moment, spotting a man leaning up against the wall near the entrance. Long grey overcoat, black visor covering his face as he held a cigarette to his mouth with his right hand, left one in his coat pocket. She cleared her throat and nervously walked through the automatic doors and quickly started toward the checking desk.

The man rasied his head as he exhaled, turning his head to the left to catch sight of his target. He meekly grinned before taking another drag of his cigarette, with a flick, he threw the still burning cigarette to the ground and exhaled as he entered the automatic doors to the airport.

* * *

Chopra's plane wouldn't arrive for another ninety minutes, so he planned to spend the time at the Seychelles International Airport, tucked discretely away in a corner seat. All he could think about was Warda's safety and whether he really would reconnect with the young sheikh. He'd sent Westerdale back to the hotel, and the man had called to say that the police had cordoned off the place and he couldn't get close.

"And let me remind you, Manoj. You'd best retrieve some documentation- if you know what I mean. You cannot waltz into London as Manoj Chopra. You must assume they know who you are. And now they'll believe that if they get to you, they'll get to him."

Chopra sighed deeply. "You're right."

"We've worked together for a while, and I've eventually grown fond of you, my friend. Please don't get yourself killed."

"I'll be careful."

* * *

At the first sight of local police activity, Dib had ordered Riggs to evac to Banyan Tree- and to take the women Warda with her. Riggs said it was a bit more complicated than that. Warda had three other women who worked for her, as well as two other body guards, who she claimed belonged to Prokofiev Delta.

"Russian guards? Who the hell is she?"

"Somebody important, I guess."

"Well, get the whole party out of there," Dib had ordered.

Another report came in from Schleck regarding Major Tuvia and the rest of Prokofiev Delta. They'd continued to head south, where they'd boarded a view Zodiac's, taken them directly east, and then simply vanished.

"They what?"

"The Zodiacs are empty and laying adrift," repeated Schleck.

"Submarine extraction?" Dib guessed.

"Or maybe the rapture," Said Schleck. "But I think a sub is more likely.

* * *

The team rendezvoused back on their yacht- an eighty two foot luxury sailing vessel with a reduced crew of four borrowed from the NSA Navy.

Once onboard, Dib was accosted by the Phoenix's, who demanded to be present while he questioned Warda.

"Let me see if I can soften her up first," He told Jorge.

"Lieutenant, we're experts in interrogation."

"So am I."

"Then let's go."

Dib blocked the man's path. "Too many people will intimidate her."

"Then I'll do it," Snapped Jorge.

"We're back to me pulling rank?"

Jorge frowned. "All right, Lieutenant, but you're bound to share everything."

Dib tensed. "Of course."

He met up with the women below decks and was relieved to speak with her alone. It wasn't that he didn't trust Parsons or the Phoenix's; he didn't trust anyone, and as he'd told Jorge, Warda might zip up with a bunch of hard faced guys leering at her. So he wore the best sympathetic look and offered her some tea. He apologized once more for having to keep her here, then said slowly, "We came to Mahé looking for a woman."

"Can I ask who you are?"

He was impressed by the steel in her tone and kept his own soft, "My name is Dib, I guess it's kind of obvious I work for the American military."

"Is this an interrogation? Have I been kidnapped?"

"Of course not. We're just here to talk, then you're free to go, but given recent events, I think you should remain with us. We'll keep you safe."

She probed a gaze at him. "What about Prokofiev Delta and Major Tuvia?"

"Like I said, we can keep you safe."

"I'd hope so."

"Believe it."

"So what do you want from me?"

Dib leaned toward her. "You asked me if I worked for Manoj. Who's he?"

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "I don't think I can say anything else."

"You have to trust me. I know that's not easy, but something's going on here. It's a lot bigger than you and I, and I'm sure you understand that."

"Oh, I understand. But maybe you don't understand how I've lived my life for the past five years. You heave no idea. All of this is insane. This is not my life."

"We know who you are," Dib confessed. "And actually, I have orders to protect you at all costs. You want a life? We can give you a new one."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Then prove it to me. Give me your gun."

That drew a frown across Dib's face. "Warda, I'm a soldier and a pretty good one. I don't give up my weapon. No matter what."

She mulled over that. "I guess I should respect that. And you did save me."

"Yeah, I remember that." Dib said, nodding.

"So I'll tell you what you need to know, then you'll just kill me. Maybe staying quiet is what will keep me alive."

He gazed deeply into her eyes before saying in a sincere tone. "I won't hurt you."

After a moment, she blushed and averted her gaze. Dib rose and pulled a bottle of water from a small refrigerator. He offered her one, then took a seat and leaned back on the sofa as a knock came at the door. "Who is it?"

"Schleck, sir." The young sniper opened the door and stuck his head inside. "Parsons got a laser on that boat's engine. Nice little fires. If she's onboard, she's hiding below. We're heading over now."

"Excellent."

"What's happening?" Asked Warda.

"We're after an Irken who's very important to us."

"Will you kill her?"

It struck Dib odd that she knew the Irken was female. "I don't want to."

"Why is she important?"

Dib smiled, unable to tell her, of course. "She came to the Seychelles for a reason. Maybe the same reason you, the IMID and Prokofiev Delta are here. Who's Manoj?"

She pursed her lips and studied him again, as though trying to decide if the color of his eyes made his trustworthy. His gaze grew more empathetic, and he began to nod. "Warda, please, there's isn't much time."

"There never is. I used to say that to my father all the time. But he never believed me..."

Suddenly she told him everything: who Manoj was, his plans for her country, and the fact that her brother was set to be Dubai's next heir. She told him in rapid fire, as though slowing down would change her mind. He thought he should have recorded the conversation, that it all came at him so quickly he might forget a significant detail. He repeated it to himself: Manoj Chopra was heading to London to make contact with Hussein Al Maktoum, a young man he'd been searching for since the orbital bombardments.

The Empress was connected to the royal family and connected to Manoj Chopra and Dubai. It was no coincidence that all three were in the Seychelles... The IMID and Prokofiev Delta, of course, had some of the party, charged with capturing The Empress, Prokofiev Delta more or less to protect the family. Was The Empress after Warda? Or, perhaps, the young sheikh? Or maybe she was after Chopra, the finance man. He wanted to turn over the bank accounts to the sheikh.

Maybe she wanted the money? Interesting. She had to be working for another entity, but Parson's intel had turned up nothing on that organization thus far.

After a long sip of water, Dib said, "So you'll come back to London with us- or if you'd like I can arrange for you to be taken to the United States, along with your sisters. Maybe you could work things out with out government."

"I'll go to London to be with my sisters. That's where I belong."

"You'll need more protection- more than what you have. They'll use you to get to your brother."

"I know."

"Then let me help with that."

"Okay."

Muffled gunfire from above sent Dib's gaze toward the door.

"More trouble," Warda said.

"Stay here."

Dib rushed up to the deck where he cried, "What do we got?" As gunfire ripped across the yacht and he dropped behind the gunwale.

"Couple of unidentified punks on the boat," Said Lakota.

Dib stole a look out across the starboard bow, where the cigar boat was rising slowly on the waves.

"Gas em' and board."

Lakota relayed the orders the Daugherty and Heston, who fired CS gas grenades that plopped into the cigar boat's cockpit, hissing and creating a thick column of smoke that sent the thugs leaping overboard. Dib asked the navy boys to bring the yacht alongside the cigar boat, after which his people climbed onto the sleek itself.

"Sorry, Lieutenant," Said Daugherty after a minute's worth of searching. "Looks like another decoy."

(End Chapter)


	9. Chapter 8

"For them... This is just some place. For us? This is our home." - SGT. Jed Eckert, USMC

* * *

Chapter Eight

**JSF V9-88 Sphinx**

**En Route to London**

**ETA: Three Hours **

Within twelve hours Dib and his team were onboard a V9-88 Sphinx, the previous generation of V-TOL behind the A/C-604 Dragon. According to the Sphinx's designers, many of the problems that plagued the old V-22 Osprey had been solved, and this new bird was a composite of multiple designs and a complete retooling of the old craft.

Despite that, Dib held his breath from the very moment of take off. That this death trap didn't look much different from the old Osprey further unnerved him. There'd been one particular hard landing in an intersection during the first Human-Irken conflict that had left him wearing his breakfast. Ah, the good old days...

With noise-canceling headphones pressed tightly to his ears and a small boom microphone to his lips, he stared down at the computer screen built into the seat ahead and positioned just above his knees. As much as he hated to, he said hello to Chieftain Major General Zim.

The half cut antenna, barrel chest, and broad shoulders were stereotypical for an Irken who'd spent his entire life from the day of birth in the Irken military and intelligence services. A keen sense of competition and pride kept most of those individuals in top shape, more so they got older because they wanted to prove they were still agile and transformed themselves into athletes comparable to colleagues half their age. That visage of prestige and power, however, deflated by the baggy orange jumpsuit with a prisoner number emblazoned on his breast. Parsons sat beside him, and it appeared that the conference call was being held in the General's prison cell within... God know's where. The room was windowless, with a small bunk positioned in one corner and a five large stacks of books piled ten or twelve high, as though Zim were plowing daily though a ton of material. Access to electronic texts must have been restricted or limited.

The old Irken cocked his full antenna. "Hello, Lieutenant, it's nice to see you again." He said, almost in a taunting tone as he bore his zipper like teeth in a savage smile. "It's my understanding that you were close to capturing her."

Dib took in a deep breath to calm himself. Carefully measuring his words and tone. "Not close enough, General, but I'm confident we'll bring her in."

"Pride cometh before the fall, Lieutenant. You won't get her without my help."

Dib repressed a shrug. "I will say she's one of the best escape artists I've ever seen, except for a few other IMID agents back in the States. She know how to misdirect and set up those decoys, that's for sure."

"Oh, I can assure you, Lieutenant, she's much better than anyone you've ever encountered before. You'll see."

"I hope I don't. We'll get her in London. What's she after? The boy? Maybe we can get two steps ahead of her and set up an ambush."

The Irken turned to Parsons and grinned darkly. "You've sent a butcher after an artist."

"No, I've sent an unconventional thinker. Now then, Lieutenant Dib, we know that Chopra is trying to find Hussein. We have reason to believe The Empress is after the boy as well. If Prokofiev Delta uncovers our intentions, they'll want to intervene if they haven't reached them already."

Dib caught a worried look on Zim's face at the mention of Prokofiev Delta as he turned from the camera screen. He looked back to Parsons. "It's that simple," Dib said sarcastically. "Now what about Warda? She give us anything else?"

"She won't tell us where her brother is, and I don't blame her, so we'll have to tail Chopra and Prokofiev Delta if we can get a lock on them. We have to assume Chopra has gone undercover as well, so it's going to take me a while to pick him up. Once we do, you'll need to move quickly."

"I understand, but that seems to preclude any chance of an ambush. We need to get ahead of them, not chase and evade."

"In a perfect world, Lieutenant," Snapped Parsons. "At least the Volkers will arrive in London ahead of you. They'll remain with Warda and her sisters until we pick up Chopra. I've worked out a deal with the Brits to provide a security force for Warda and her sisters, once we're gone."

Dib nodded and directed his gaze to Zim.

"General, is there anything else you can tell me about The Empress? Maybe shed some light on Prokofiev Delta? I mean something not in the files, something you think might help us to better our mission?"

The old General simpered. "The Empress, if she's going to London, you might find her in a little pub called the Bread and Roses on Clapham Manor. It's run by a trades union council and associated with the Workers' Beer Company. They raise money for workers' rights causes. She always fought for the little guy, donated money to lots of causes, cancer research, and many others. She'll be in the beer garden out back." Zim leaned back as he crossed his arms. "As for Prokofiev Delta," The General let out a deep breath. "They're dangerous. More than any group I've encountered on any other world. They're an overwhelming fighting force that relies on unrelenting fire power and tough armor, coupled with years of training and high tech equipment. In the days of the ground war in Russia, we were sent to infiltrate a military installation where we first encountered a Prokofiev Delta unit. Three men. They wiped out my entire fire team of Elite's, I barely made it out alive."

"Why didn't you tell us this sooner?" Parsons asked the General.

"No one's ever asked until now."

Parsons shook her head in disgust. "Dib, I'll get some people there a-sap."

He nodded. "And I'll send two as soon as we land."

Zim snorted. "Good luck."

"General, can I asked you something? You seem willing to help us capture her, but you doubt we will. She's just an individual on the run, and I don't care how many resources she has. Eventually, she'll make a mistake. And we'll bring her in."

Zim's lips curled in amusement. "Lieutenant, I've spent nearly half a century with Jul, that's enough time to know there are few people in thus universe who can stop her. If by some miracle you do happen to accidentally capture her, I believe she will have surrendered and that it would have nothing to do with your skills. Her cunning is unmatched."

Dib returned a lopsided grin. "Thank you for the vote of confidence, General."

Parsons told Dib to stand by while she spoke off camera with the General. He couldn't hear what they were saying, and after a moment, Parsons returned while Zim was escorted out of the cell by six armed guards.

"Major, you really think that old Irken can help us?" Dib asked. "What if he's lying?"

"He's not. At least not entirely. He's already helped with a great deal of items and issues."

"It's my understanding that he had a relationship with The Empress. What makes you think he' not still working with her?"

Parsons smiled. "You're sharp, Lieutenant. No matter what they say about you."

Dib grinned himself. "Are you setting him up?"

"Of course. We'll give him enough bait... See if he tries to contact her. That'll give us her location as well- and I know the Volkers will continue questioning Warda. She still doesn't trust us, but if she gives in, we could end this quickly and set up an ambush."

"Can I ask you something? Once we capture The Empress, do you really think she'll talk?"

"I don't know, but she poses a major threat to this entire planet. She's even working against her own government- and that's what really scares me. Now Lieutenant, I need you to capture her in London. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Dib shrugged. "Yeah."

He remembered the five minute meeting he'd had with her, just before they'd taken off. Her words were off the record, and they had stung: "You've done some exceptional work in the Marines. As well as the Army Special Forces and earned your recruitment into Ghostex: Delta 6. There's no denying that. You did a fine job up in Canada and the States during the Irken invasion, but since then it's been downhill. I'm just saying that this operation has to go by the numbers- for both of us. I can't promise you what'll happen if you lose her in London. I just can't."

"Ma'am, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying there's no room for mistakes like failing to check that taxi. She slipped away once. That can't happen again."

"Other, I'm gone."

"They were thinking of removing you from Ghostex and wiping your memory before I brought you on board for this."

"Wait, they can do that?"

"Yes, they can. I'm taking a risk on you because I need someone who's got more at stake than just a mission. I'll be honest. I figure that if your whole career and half your memory depends on capturing The Empress, you'll probably get the job done. Some of your colleagues have less to lose- but you've got it all."

"I don't believe this..."

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant. They could have wiped you and bust you down to the Marines again. I can make recommendations, but ultimately it's their call."

"So, if we don't get her in London, I'm done."

"Don't think of it that way. Think of it as your chance to bring in the universe's most dangerous war criminal and earn a reputation for yourself as one of Ghostex's top operators."

"So it's all or nothing."

Dib tensed as Parsons nodded and said, "I'll be in touch once you're on the ground."

He returned the nod and she abruptly broke the link.

All he could do was sit there, the seat straps feeling as though they were tightening like a boa curled around his shoulders and back, read to suffocate him.

He'd dedicated his entire life to service.

He'd tried his best to be a good soldiers, a good man, and to atone for his sins.

He'd tried to set the world right by taking another man's place.

And now they were presenting the ultimatum, as though they'd seen through him, knew that his heart hadn't truly been in it from the beginning, that he'd joined the Army out of guilt, and that he wasn't destined to retire a Ghostex operator. He couldn't fool them anymore. And now they were giving him enough rope, not so that he could hang on... But just enough to hang himself.

_'All right. You didn't get into Ghostex: Delta 6 without ripping to the top of SF.' _He told himself. He needed a stronger bond with his people. He needed them more than ever now, and he wondered how forthright he should be. _'If we don't get her in London, we're done.' _Would that inspire confidence in them, or would that place them under more pressure?

They needed to hear something.

Once they landed, the operational tempo would pick up, and there'd be no tome for idle chatter. He unbuckled from his seat, turning back to face the group, seated in pairs down the long aisle.

"Ladies and gentlemen," He began.

They, like him, also wore headphones and microphones and were patched into the intercom, so they could hear one another over the tremendous booming of the Sphinx's engines.

"I just finished my briefing with Major Parsons. Although we had some complication in the Seychelles, she's confident we can get The Empress in London- and so am I."

Lakota rasied her hand. "Sir, honestly, I think it'll be more difficult now. Big City. So many places to hide. We haven't even dusted her. And we need to worry about Storr, Major Tuvia and his people on our back. I'm just thinking this whole thing belongs to the NSA and not us."

"We're unconventional fighters. That means one minute we're spies, the next we're stand up warriors. We think, we move, we shoot, communicate, adapt, and drink beer." He winked at the group and got a few quick chuckles. He then added, "I know you're worried about his. We need a win. But I want to tell you that I couldn't have been more impressed with your performance on Mahé."

Noboru lifted a finger and said, "Lieutenant, I know we did a good job- based on the limited information we had- but the mission failed. Not sure how impressive that is."

Dib stared a moment into the Japanese man's frown, then quickly responded: "I wrote it us as, 'Due circumstances beyond our control and limited intelligence, we arrived at the target location too late to run either an ambush or an effective blocking position.' We couldn't control that. And I'm not focusing on losing the target. I'm thinking abut what did-"

"I think we rocked the house," Said Riggs, wriggling her brows, even turning around so those behind could see her. "We took out some of those guys from that Delta team- and not a single one of us took a hit."

"Hoo-ah!" Cried Heston.

"You're damned right we did good," Said Dib. "Now we're going to drop in London and do it again. It's not the misses that counts; it's the hits."

"So we're back to wearing civilian clothes, packing very light, and running tight surveillance," Said Heston in with his Texas drawl.

"I know you'd prefer a stand up fight. But you've been around long enough to know how it goes. I'm counting on every one of you to give me a hundred and ten percent here." Dib lifted his voice. "Are you with me?"

They all cried in unison. "Sir, yes, sir!"

Dib held up a fist, shook it, then returned to his seat and closed his eyes. He was trembling.

* * *

About fifteen minutes before they were set to land, Lakota took the chair beside Dib. She motioned for him to turn his intercom to channel three so they could talk privately.

"What's up?" He asked.

"I'll help you."

"That's nice," He said, unable to disguise his sarcasm. "I was kinda hoping for that."

"You know what I mean."

He gave her a look. "Uh, no, Corporal, I don't."

"Rumors get around, and I'm sure your briefing with Parsons didn't go so well. Here's what I think. I think she told you if we fail in London, it's all over for us. They'll break up the team, wipe our memories... I don't know... But she gave you the ultimatum, right?"

"What are you? A fortune teller?"

"You're just like my ex-husband. Easy to read. When he was trying to tell me he wanted a divorce, I'd already had the papers drawn up."

"Ouch."

"For him, not for me."

"Sorry about that."

"I'm sorry you haven't asked about it. That's your problem, Lieutenant. You need to be more nosy. You need to know us better. Pry. I mean, you haven't even hit on me."

"Are you crazy? I respect your privacy."

"We don't want it respected. Ask about our personal lives. There isn't a hell of a lot there anyway. This is pretty much all we've got. But ask."

Dib shrugged. "Well, I guess I shouldn't be telling you this, but you're right. I'm hanging on by a thread."

"And like I said, we'll help. You were good back on the island. I'm proud to serve with you. We just need to get her in London."

Dib took in along breath. "Yes, we do."

She was about to get up, but he stopped her. "Thanks. I can't do it without you... Or them. I know that."

She winked. "Tell them."

By the time Lakota made it back to her seat, their pilot was on the intercom, his voice tense. "Sorry, guys, but we've just been diverted to RAF Lakenheath."

"Why's that?" Asked Dib.

"Jesus Christ, look at that. What are those?" The co-pilot started.

"What's happening?" Dib demanded.

"Come take a look yourself," The pilot waved Dib upward.

Dib unbuckled his harness and fought against gravity as the craft turned right. Looking outside the left side of the cockpit, Dib spotted multiple Irken assault carriers, but that wasn't what truly caught his attention. A few kilometers from the Irken craft, coming from the direction Russia was in, at least three times the amount of craft almost resembling heavy battle cruisers painted in air superiority grey were closing in.

"Oh my God," The pilot said in shock. "They're Russian!" He said, pointing at the rear end of the lead craft, a large, white, blue and red Russian Federation flag painted on the rear end of the ships.

"What the hell are Russians doing here? I thought the Irkens broke them?"

"I thought the same thing. I don't know if it's an occupying force or what, look at that," Dib said, pointing at the sides of the of the Russian ships, Su-47 Berkut fighters, Su-34 strike force bombers and PAK FA T-50 stealth fighters pouring out the sides and speeding toward the Irken ships, which deployed their own fighters more than likely on a defend order.

"The Brits are worried about shooting anything down, potential collateral damage." Reported the co-pilot, pressing his headset tighter to his ear, he waved Dib back to his seat. "We've been locked, get to your seat!"

Suddenly, the Sphinx banked right, sending Dib into the wall hard. He felt his stomach slam into his ribs.

"Oh my God," Gasped the pilot. "Brace for impact!"

(End Chapter)


	10. Chapter 9

"Five second fuses only last three seconds." - Human Infantry Journal

* * *

Chapter Nine

**Sandhurst, England**

Warda had told Chopra that according to her father's wishes, Hussein would be given lessons in all the major subjects by officers from the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst. These officers would tutor the boy at a small, nondescript home on the outskirts of the town, where he would reside for nine months out of the year.

The tutoring had begun last year, when Hussein had turned fifteen. Prior to that he'd been moved every few months and instructed by a select few teachers who traveled with him. The boy's father had wanted him to be formally trained and educated, and he'd always had great respect and admiration for the British education system for its military officers; this, he's left specific instructions for Hussein's preparations to become a well rounded individual.

The e-mails and videos from her father were difficult to read and watch, and Warda had spent many days crying over them. It seemed that in the months prior to the orbital bombardment, tensions had grown so high that her father had actually been planning for his own death and preparing as much as he could for the survival of his country. However, most of his wishes had been thrown by the wayside when, for the most part, the people who would have enacted them had also been killed during that fateful and horrible day.

With Westerdale's help, Chopra had obtained excellent documentation and two things to alter his appearance: He'd bought a much thicker pair of plastic frames instead of his usual ultralight titanium glasses, and he had shaven his head completely bald. He typically wore a short, conservative haircut, his salt and pepper locks parted to one side and held in place with a squirt of hair spray. Now he was bald with thicker glasses and resembled an overage punk rocker or insecure artist type.

Looking in the mirror proved unsettling.

Westerdale gad also reported that Warda was now in the hands of the Americans, which was, for the most part, not a bad stroke of luck. He doubted they would hold her wishes and suggested Chopra share his news with Hussein or Hussein's people so that they might attempt to locate her.

Chopra arrived at London Heathrow Airport and caught a black cab out to Chepperton, where he changed cabs again, then headed down to Windlesham and did likewise once more, all in an effort to thwart anyone trying to tail him. He instructed the last driver to pull up outside the Premier Inn, where at such time a nondescript sedan was waiting for him. He paid the driver and climbed into the other car.

Ironically, he recognized the sedan's driver, a white haired man named John Southland, an American who had been working with the Al Maktoum family for decades as a professional mechanic and driver.

"Mr. Chopra, it's been a long time," Said Southland.

"Much too long," Answered Chopra, growing a bit misty eyed. "I thought you'd been killed."

"They sent me away early with the children. I urged them to come, but they insisted on staying. He thought if he evacuated he would be deemed a coward by the people. And he paid for that with his life. But we are still here and have been with the children ever since."

"And how many others?"

"Just four of us. And two more with the sisters. They have an apartment nearby."

"You've done an excellent job of protecting them."

"We didn't do it alone. And I've heard that everything could change now. We are understandably concerned."

Chopra took a long breath. "I have what is rightfully his. And he, under the guidance of regent, can now assume leadership of the country."

"The Americans are calling Dubai the Wild West. No rule, with refugees moving in and out, and radiation still a problem. You are handing him a garbage heap."

"No. Dubai will rise again. This needs to happen."

"The Irkens will not be happy."

"That's why we must protect him."

"I'm confused, Manoj. It's not even your country."

"You're wrong. I wouldn't have a life if it weren't for them. I'm a man of two countries. Hussein will rebuild his nation, our nation."

Southland chuckled under his breath. "You'll have fun convincing him of that."

"Oh, really?"

"You'll see. He's not the boy you remember."

They fell silent as Southland took them to the Owlsmoor section of Sandhurst and turned down Horsham Road to park beside a four bedroom detached house similar to an American townhome. These were modest quarters for the young sheikh, but that was part of remaining subtle and keeping a lower profile here in Europe. Time spent away in places like the Seychelles was obviously another matter.

As he climbed out of the car, Chopra frowned over the deep thrumming became distinctly deep and steady pulse.

"He likes to listen to his music in the morning," Said Southland.

"What about headphones?" Asked Chopra.

Southland rolled his eyes. "Oh, we've tried..."

Once inside, Chopra winced at the booming and shouting coming from an upstairs bedroom. He wasn't sure if they called it rap or hip-hop or had invented some new term, but the sounds were headache producing, the language unabashed.

They moved into the kitchen area, where seated around the table were two men and a women, again all of them middle aged and familiar to Chopra. The leaner man and the women were private tutors. and the other more stocky man was one of the family's personal bodyguards. Chopra had forgotten his name but remembered that he'd retired from the Saudi Ministry of Defense and Aviation.

He'd greeted them, but they were, in a word, cold, barely glancing up from their toast and cereal, which smelled wonderful since all he'd had was bitter airport coffee.

"I'm sorry," Said Southland. "We don't quite agree with what's happening here."

"Why is that?" Asked Chopra.

"Because he's not ready for such responsibility," Said the women.

Chopra glanced at her empathetically. "He's sixteen. We all know the story of Sheikh Maktoum bin Buti."

Southland snorted. "We're living in much different times."

"History repeats itself," Said Chopra. "He, too, will rise back to power,"

"Maktoum bin Buti was very young, yes, but he was courageous. Hussein is a product of the computer age, bloated with information and blinded by his own desires for stimulus and pleasure."

The eloquent argument had come from the female teacher, and her surname finally came to Chopra: Werner. Mrs. Werner, a British college professor who'd been swept up out of graduate school to work exclusively with Hussein and his sisters.

"I didn't come to debate this," Said Chopra. "I need to speak with him. I need to remind him of who he is and what I've been protecting for all these years."

"You're an idealist Chopra," Werner said, staring up at him over the rim of her glasses. "And I hope you've braced yourself for disappointment."

"You're making him out to be a monster. He's a sixteen year old boy."

The volume on the stereo upstairs suddenly spiked, and Southland lifted his voice like an irate father. "Hussein, that is much too loud!"

The volume increased further.

After a deep breath, Chopra headed for the staircase.

He would his way up to the first landing, and the music became so loud that he thought his eyes would begin to tear. He found the nearest bedroom door at the top and gave it a loud knock.

No answer.

He knocked again, much more loudly, and when the door swung open, Chopra took one look and remained there, aghast...

* * *

The Empress had just finished launching her own surveillance drone, which separated into four distinct modules, each sensor no larger than the finger you would call an Irken thumb and attaching itself to the house. She'd just finished listening to Chopra speak to the boy's staff, and she decided that she would move soon to catch them all in one place, and when they were most vulnerable.

She was crouched behind Southland's car as the man came outside to fetch the newspaper.

She took a deep breath and reached out with all her senses.

If someone had been electronically monitoring her heart beat and respiration, the numbers would've barely risen. By the time she'd joined the IMID, she'd stopped counting the number of people she had killed. If you asked her, "Do you remember that night on Vort when you had to take out that officer just before he climbed into that transport?" She would have to squint hard into that memory. The kills had become routine- an ugly word when it came to death- but she joped they'd remain that way. Without emotion or guilt to cloud her judgment or delay her performance, she could operate efficiently, robotically even.

No drama- just the elimination of obstacles.

She got to work.

The neighbors would be heading out soon, and she scanned the doorways before acting.

Clear.

After a barely appreciable thump, Southland collapsed from a perfectly timed and executed headshot. She dragged his body behind the car and left it there, out of sight from the street of adjacent doorways. She fetched the newspaper and held it up in front of her face as she entered the side door.

"What the hell are they reporting now?" Came a man's voice. Ah, yes, the bodyguard.

She lowered the paper, and in its place came her suppressed pistol. The bodyguard swallowed her first round. The teachers met her entrance with wide eyes and open mouths, as though they were hungry, too. She shrugged. Her gaze lifted to the ceiling. Indeed, the boy's music helped muffle any sign of commotion.

Two more shots.

The male teacher snapped back, then fell forward into his bowl of cereal. The other fell sideways off her chair. The Empress neared the table and snatched a piece of the women's toast.

Peach Jam. Yummy.

Her phone vibrated. She cracked the screen as she took another bite of the toast: a message from Patti.

_You'd better move. You've got trouble._

* * *

The missile struck the port side engine, and the explosion sent the Sphinx banking hard and losing altitude.

As the others swore and screamed, Dib thought, _Well, all that worrying over my career was a waste of time. And the engineers who designed this contraption probably haven't addressed the autorotation issue that I'd been hearing about, so we're dead. _

But then the aircraft leveled off and pilot got on the horn to say he had control.

That was the only good news.

In a voice tense and breathless he added that they were still coming down hard and fast as they lost hydraulic fluid. Belly flopping like a five hundred pound man into an inflatable pool might be the best that he could do.

Dib checked one of the windows, a new addition to the Sphinx, and noted their angle of descent and the farmers' fields splayed out before them. A pair of Irken Air Reapers raced by with two Su-47's in tow, the Russian's engaging the Irken's with their duel GSH-30-2 autocannons mounted on the nose of their crafts. Dib wanted to ask the pilot if they had any more information, but thought better of it. Let the guy focus on the landing.

"Who's praying with me?" Cried Heston. "I'm not ready to meet Jesus, and I say we tell him that!"

"Get in crash positions," Ordered Dib. "Remember your training."

As he listened to Heston's prayer and leaned forward to place his head between his legs to, of course, kiss his butt good bye, the Sphinx turned again, as though riding on broken rails like and old mining car. The shuddering began at the back of the aircraft and worked its way forward, as though a fault line were opening in the steel deck.

The pilot shouted something, his voice burned by frustration. Dib strained to hear him, but the intercom cut off into static as the stench of jet fuel began filtering into the cabin. Oh, that was not good.

"Masks on!" Dib shouted above the din.

They fished out the O2 masked from their packs and slid them over their faces. These were not attached to the Sphinx but self contained and man portable units that Dib always carried when he flew the not so friendly skies. The oxygen flow came immediately and cleared the stench of fuel. Dib dug his fingers into his palms and kept seeing fireballs- a Corvette exploding, nuclear mushroom clouds rising, the Earth being kicked high into the air moments before a proton weapon hit it's mark, as Parson's voice came in a whisper, _"It's over. You're finished." _

The Sphinx dropped as though hitting another air pocket, and the straps dug into Dib's shoulders. His stomach now greeted his ears. The engines shifted pitch, whining now like lawn mowers burning pure alcohol. A sudden clunk from the deck indicated that the pilot was lowering the gear, but a redundant clunking alarmed Dib. He remembered that hydraulic leak. He chanced a quick look up at his window. The port engine was engulfed in flames and billowing black smoke, but the drone suggested the rotor was still somehow functional.

It would be fitting, Dib thought, if he died in a ball of flames as Torque had. His death would be the other bookend. Maybe that was his fate, and he was just walking toward the open door.

Another dip made his feel weightless, and the panic rose from his gut and burned. The Sphinx now sounded like a freight train that was derailing and plunging over a cliff.

Place your tray tables in the upright position.

And prepare for "landing."

When the drunks get in car accidents many of them walk away because at the time of impact, their bodies are fully relaxed. They take the hit and conform more naturally to the trauma. Those who tense up and have white knuckled grips at the moment of impact tend to be the worst off. Dib knew that. He'd talked to medics, seen crash victims, been told about relaxing on impact.

So part of him said, _Clear your mind and let it happen_, that if he could imagine himself as a rag doll he could better survive the impact. His more logical side argued that he was about to die and a death grip on the seat or straps was the only response. Fight or Flight. You can't deny instinct, deny nature.

Dib's ex-girlfriend had been right; he should have left the Army as she'd wanted. Zita had spent three years trying to convince him, while he'd fallen deeply in love with her. She was in love with him, too, but not in love with his career. He'd kept saying, "You knew this going in. If you couldn't marry a soldier, why'd you get involved in the first place?"

"I got involved with a man who happened to be a soldier."

And she'd just cried and wondered why she had.

Their three years together- really eighteen months since he'd spent the other half deployed- had taught Dib one said and rather trite lesson: Don't get involved. It wasn't worth it. He admired those colleagues who could maintain families despite the challenges; he just wasn't one of them because the time and distance turned him cold and he couldn't switch on the feelings just like that. And if he'd just listened to Zita, he'd be at home in California, probably working some day job that didn't thrill him, but he'd be with her; they'd have a small house or apartment, a couple of kids, and on the weekends they'd buy ice cream cones at the galleria.

Was that such a terrible life?

Now he would die like this, probably burned alive as the jet fuel washed over him and the flames licked their way up his spine.

Damn, why was he being such a pessimist? The team needed him now, despite the fact that their lives were in the hands of the Sphinx's pilot and co-pilot, and there wasn't a damned thing they could do about that- except remain hopeful instead of resigning themselves to death.

He took a long breath, then shouted at the top of his lungs: "All right, everybody! We're Ghostex: Delta Six! We don't die in crashed! The runway comes to us!"

"Hoo-ah!" They cried, a bit halfheartedly.

"I can't hear you!"

This time they shouted with everything they had, and just the sheer volume in their voices made it easier to pretend they were still in control.

* * *

Sheikh Hussein Al Maktoum glared upon Chopra as he tossed his long, curly hair out of his eyes. Then the boy returned the skateboard hat to his head and positioned it so the brim jutted cockily to one side. The oversized black T-shirt that said _Gang WarZ _in purple text, the hoop earring in one ear, and the large gold necklaces he wore were not quite as surprising as the black tattoo of barbed wire running across the young man's forearm.

He was a Muslim. Tattoos were forbidden, or at least Chopra understood they were. Hopefully the tattoo was not real, a decal that would wash away with time.

"You're not from Sandhurst," Hussein hollered, his accent distinctly British.

"Turn down the music!" Cried Chopra. "I need to speak with you! You don't remember me?"

Hussein made a face, pushed open the door, and allowed Chopra to enter.

To say the boy was a pack rat wildly understated it.

Stacks of movies, books, and video games rose along nearly every wall, forming a mottled wainscot of spines and rising in testament to a young life spent consuming all that was commercial and, in Chopra's humble opinion, all that was deplorable about society.

Framed posters on the wall depicted more of the boy's thug heroes: shirtless men making obscene gestures while scantily clad women clutched their waists and knelt at their sides to pay homage. At least three flat screen TVs hung from the upper walls, and every conceivable game console on the market sat on the floor below them: elaborate headsets encrusted with a spaghetti of wires along with high tech gloves and a rug of some sort that was also wired to an antenna.

In the far corner of the teenager's nest stood a small refrigerator beside which was a shelf loaded with junk food: chips, crackers, cookies, and assorted candy. Those dietary choices certainly accounted for the young Sheikh's puffy cheeks and the paunch he attempted to hide beneath his baggy shirt and jeans. Chopra also noted the boy's expensive sneakers made in Vietnam of some space age fluorescent material that shimmered like blueish green algae.

Now wearing a deeper frown, Hussein sauntered over to a tiny box on one shelf and suddenly lowered the music with a remote he snatched off the top, but even as he turned back to face Chopra, he was mouthing the words of the song.

"Hussein, you don't remember me?" Chopra repeated.

"Maybe. Like maybe you worked with my father or something. What do you want, old man? Are you one of the new tutors? You don't look like an officer."

Chopra motioned to a pair of over stuffed leather recliners from where Hussein played his video games.

"Please sit. We have a lot to discuss. You don't know how long I've been waiting for this moment."

"Frankly, I don't care. I'm hungry. And the two dolts who tutor me will be here soon. I don't have time for this. I'm hungry!"

"Hussein, listen to me. I hold the keys to helping you rebuild your country. But it's up to you. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

He stood there a moment, scrutinizing Chopra. Then something occurred to him and he burst into laughter. "What the hell? Is Southy playing a joke on me?" He moved toward the door and lifted his voice. "Southy! What the hell is this?"

"Hussein, please sit down."

The boy's face screwed up into a knot. "Old man, I have no clue what you want, but this isn't funny anymore. Get out of my room." He cocked a thumb toward the doorway. "And tell those bastards downstairs they'd best have my breakfast ready!"

Chopra lowered his head and sighed deeply, and when he looked up, a women stood behind the young Sheikh- The same women Chopra had seen in the Seychelles. Short, dark hair. Lean, muscular. Penetrating eyes. Jeans and tight fitting leather jacket.

Wearing a smug expression, she held a pistol with a large suppressor to the back of the boy's head.

"Hussein, don't move," Gasped Chopra.

But the boy whirled around to face the women. "Who the hell are you?" He glanced at the gun. "And what is this? How dare you wave that piece in my face. How dare you!"

Chopra nearly fainted as Hussein slapped away the women's pistol as he shouted. "Southy, what in bloody hell is going on here! Who are these freaks? You're going to pay for this charade! I'm telling you right now! This is the last time you play a joke on me!"

But even as he finished, the women seized him by the neck, slammed the door behind her, and forced him into the room and toward the recliner beside Chopra. Though her weapon sent a chill through him, Chopra rose immediately from his chair and shouted, "You will not hurt him! Do you hear me?"

"You sit down!" She screamed.

Then she jammed her pistol into Hussein's head and spoke through her teeth. "Now listen to me carefully, little boy. Your friends are all dead. And you're going to do exactly as I say, if you want to stay alive." She spoke in English with a strange accent that none of the two could place a finger on. But just as Chopra was about to say anything, the figure the female possessed began to shimmer and her luscious white skin faded to a pale green, revealing her zipper like teeth, short straightened out antenna and her blue diamond like eyes.

Chopra was robbed of breath. God, the Irken's had won.

"This isn't a joke?" Hussein asked, his voice cracking.

The Irken widened her eyes. "Do I look like I'm joking?"

"Who are you? What do you want?" Chopra demanded.

Slowly, she removed her weapon from Hussein's head, and then she suddenly backhanded Chopra, her leather glove dragged across his cheek. His glasses flew across the room and he groaned, his own palm going reflexively for the pain.

"Quiet, old man. I do all the talking now. You want to know who I am? Well, they call me The Empress."

(End Chapter)


	11. Chapter 10

"There, where we go, there is victory!" - Prokofiev Delta Motto

* * *

Chapter Ten

**JSF V9-88 Sphinx **

**En Route to London **

The Sphinx jolted forward as the pilot decreased power to both engines and Dib began a mental countdown, believing he could estimate their altitude.

Who was he fooling?

He was counting just to keep his mind off their impending doom. Dib huffed a small laugh at the word, _Impending Doom,_ it's where all this started. Smoke obscured view through the window, but it seemed they would hit the ground at any second. They weren't kidding when they said the waiting was the hardest part. Something buffeted the Sphinx, and he wondered if they'd taken plasma cannon fire or hit a downdraft.

Whether they had actually reached RAF Lakenheath remained to be seen. Any solid ground would do for now. He was rooting for the pilot the same way he rooted for the Dodgers: with balled fists and pure fury, even when the team was down by ten runs and most fans had already left after the seventh inning. Dib would shove his fourth Dodger dog into his mouth, rise, and with a mouth full of mustard, relish, and hot dog, scream, "Come on, you bums, score a freaking run!"

Their forward momentum began to decrease as the bird pitched forward and descended even more. Dib thought of stealing one more glance through the window to see if the smoke had cleared, but that thought was lost on a terrific boom resounding from the cockpit.

The racket swept through the craft.

And Dib realized they'd struck the ground and were scraping forward because the gear had not fully lowered and locked into place. The boom had been the gear snapping off. They began to fishtail like a sorts car driver accelerating too hard- and Dib was too familiar with that sensation.

Thrown right, then left, he tightened his grip on the seat rails as the fuselage floor buckled beneath his boots. The cacophony of the impact was muffled only by the sound of his panting into the oxygen mask.

At once, a massive crack opened the deck, and a large piece of the landing gear- one of the wheel arms- burst up into the hold, severed hydraulic lines dancing like bleeding snakes as the nails on chalkboard scraping continued.

Dib glanced over at his people, expecting them to be praying some more or cursing and screaming, or doing something that would indicate that they were railing against their fate- or at the very least, afraid to die. But there was none of that now. They eyed each other and nodded. They had good lives. Done good work. Made a difference. And screw it, if today was the day, they would take it like warriors. Just take it.

In that moment, as he seemed to hang there between worlds, between life and a sudden and horrific death, he never felt more proud of a team. He took a deep breath and held it as he closed his eyes.

_'If I'm going to die, then bring it, I'm in good company.' _

And then, quite suddenly...

It was over.

The Sphinx burrowed itself into the earth and came to a sudden halt, lying there, somewhere, creaking, the engines still groaning but winding down- as opposed to Dib's heart, which jackhammered in his chest. His ears betrayed him for a moment. The world went muffled, almost silent. And then it hit: the fear of fire and explosion. And the racket returned at once, volume at ten. "On your feet! On your feet!" Cried the pilot, throwing his harness off and helping the co-pilot out of his own.

Dib started to get his off as he activated his boom mic. "Lakota, blow the exit door! Everybody evac now! Right now!" Dib finally unbuckled from his seat and rose, counting off his people as Lakota worked the release mechanism on the side door and the hatch yawned open. The pilot and co-pilot hustled through the cabin and joined the group. The co-pilot was nursing her left arm but seemed otherwise okay. Everyone was on the ready line to pile out, everyone except the quiet man, Pak.

Dib saw him still seated in his chair and unmoving. He raced past the line as the other shifted out. He got to Pak, found him unconscious, felt his neck for a carotid pulse and got one. Dib wasn't sure if the fumes had gotten to him or something else, but he unstrapped the guy and took him up in a fireman's carry. With his knees buckling, he turned for the doorway-

To find a wall of flames blocking his path.

With a gasp, he realized the fire wasn't coming from inside the Sphinx.

The words slipped from his mouth. "Oh my God..."

Their hot landing and even hotter exhaust had set fire to the brown gas field outside. It was midsummer, and parts of the U.K. had been suffering a record drought. The others had made it out seconds before the ground beneath them burst into flames.

Dib's worst nightmares regarding an explosion would not play out. He wouldn't die in a crash and fireball like Torque had. He'd die in a grass fire created by the ninety three million dollar taxicab in which he'd been a passenger.

You call that a blaze of glory ?

Aw, if he died, he;d go to customer service with his receipt for a life well lived and ask God for a refund. He deserved a much more dramatic death. Then again, he was assuming he'd go upstairs instead of downstairs, where the fires of hell would be fueled by the gas tanks of a million burning Corvettes. Not fuel burning grass.

He lowered Pak to the deck, his gaze sweeping the compartment for a fire extinguisher.

There! On the wall ahead, near the entrance to the cockpit. He darted for the long red cylinder and tugged it free from its rubberized holder. Smoke now billowed into the hold and burned his eyes. He pulled the extinguisher's pin as he swung around toward the flames.

* * *

The air raid sirens came as a muffled hum from somewhere outside, the sound of jet engines zipping by overhead as well as the drone of large propellers carrying heavy transports could be heard every few minutes, just beyond the boy's room, and The Empress paused a moment to prick up her antennae and listen.

Patti warned her about trouble- but nothing as quite dramatic. Were the Russians making a move like recent activity predicted? She'd expected the Americans or Storr to show up, but not the entire Russian Army and combined Air Force.

"Is the city under attack?" Asked Chopra.

"Those sirens go off a lot," Said the boy. "Usually just a warning."

The Empress lowered one antenna and cocked the other. "Not this time."

"How do you know?" The boy asked.

"I know. Both of you- up. We're leaving."

"Where are we going?" Chopra demanded.

It didn't matter if hew knew, so she just told him the truth. "Geneva."

"Geneva? Why there?"

"I know a good restaurant for lunch. Now quiet. Let's move." She motioned with her pistol toward the door as her holographic disguise reactivated, covering her green skin and giving her more human appearance.

"I'm not going anywhere," Said Hussein, rubbing his neck. "You can't kidnap me. That's ridiculous. That's probably not even a real gun."

She grinned. "You're right. This is ridiculous. And I have no use for you, so..." She moved toward him, raised the pistol, and felt pretty comfortable about putting a bullet in his head.

"Please," Cried Chopra. "You have no idea who... I mean, he's just... He's a boy. There's no need to kill him. Hussein, you will come with us!"

The kid snorted. "Yeah, right."

Chopra began to lose his breath. "Hussein, we'll go with her now."

"You heard me, old man. I'm staying."

The Empress couldn't believe what she was hearing from this little punk bastard. She walked up to him, smiled, then quickly punched him in the face so hard he fell onto the floor. Then she fired a round not three inches from his kneecap. The bullet burrowed into the floor. "Now get up, you're coming!" She screamed as she tangled her fingers in the boy's hair and lifted him to his feet as he pleaded for her to stop.

When he was to his feet and holding his face, he looked at her, at the gun, then began shaking and struggling to stay on his feet. Chopra rushed over to him, and together they ambled to the door.

She predicted they would gasp when they viewed the carnage she wrought in the kitchen.

They gasped.

And she needed no further demonstration that she was a women of her word, that she would kill them if they didn't cooperate.

She'd parked her rental car around the corner but decided on the spot that they would take Southland's sedan and make at least one more car exchange that she'd arranged with Patti. She dug into the dead man's pocket, tugged out his keys, and ordered Chopra and the boy into the car, with Chopra at the wheel. She and the boy climbed into the backseat.

"Just get us out of here. Now," She ordered. "South, toward Dover."

Chopra started the car and pulled out. She kept the pistol aimed at the back of his head and flicked her gaze to the bot. "All right, I want to know everything."

Before Chopra could answer, the ground began to shake and a thunderous, deafening sound resounded overhead, it sounded like some strange creature howling, Chopra hit the brakes and rolled down his window to look to the sky, The Empress and the boy doing to same. They all watched a large grey craft, maybe a kilometer long streak overhead, escorted by multiple squadrons of An-225's and a large array of fighter jets.

"Drive!" The Empress yelled, and with that, Chopra stepped on the gas and sped off.

"Something's happening," Said Chopra. "Something very big and very bad."

"What do you want with us?" Asked Hussein.

She rolled her eyes at him. "You're just baggage."

"You want him?" The boy sounded confused.

"Chopra," The Empress began to yell over the sound of another large escorted craft passing overhead. "Why don't you tell him of the secrets you carry? You're one of the last remaining living keys. Maybe the only one. From what I've read, the boy's father was very paranoid that way, and there were very few who knew."

The boy snorted, also yelling over the thunderous sound overhead. "What're you talking about?"

"Come on, Chopra, tell him why I've come," She urged the old man.

"She's here because the Irkens want what is left of Dubai for their own. They think they can decontaminate the oil and gain even more control over the universal market. But they're overzealous fools, and they'll suffer another defeat at the hands of mankind- even worse than their invasion of Canada."

"You think I'm working for the Irkens?" She asked, almost chuckling. "No worries there, old man. Those days are gone. Long gone."

"Then who are your employers, and what do they want?"

"We know about the secret reserves. We know about the gold. And you'll get us into the vault."

"So you've come to rob Dubai of what little it has left? That won't happen. Dubai will rise again. And I'll die before I see you inside the vault."

She took a long breath. Speaking normal volume after the sound of the large, escorted craft died out. "You'll come around. A man like you does not respond well to torture."

"He's not the only one who can get you into the vault."

"Shut up, boy, you're bluffing."

"What I mean to say is yes, there aren't many who can get inside, but once you're in, he can't give you the locations to the oil reserves, the ones my father kept secret. He doesn't know the password, and he wouldn't pass the DNA scan."

"This is a good story to help keep you alive, huh?" She asked. "You want me to think you're valuable. That's pretty clever for a little bot who knows more about video games than the real world."

"He's more valuable to our world than you know," Snapped Chopra.

"To be frank, I agree," She answered, probably stunning him, though she couldn't see his expression. "Let Dubai return to the world's economy. In fact, I'd like to see the emirates return to power and undermine the Irken economy. I'd like to see Irk and it's leaders fall to their knees. But I still want the gold and the locations of the oil reserves."

"I'm willing to negotiate," Said Hussein.

"No you're not!" Cried Chopra. "There's no negotiating with this... This terrorist!"

"Shut up, old man, does it look like we have a choice here?" Shouted Hussein over the sound of more than five of the large escorted craft they saw earlier passing overhead, the ground trembling now as the concrete road seemed to fall apart as large splinters cracked up and down it. "Now listen to me, Empress, or whatever your name is, he can get you the gold but not the oil. I'll give you the locations, but you're going to split the gold with me!"

She marveled over the boy's naivete and actually found it as charming as it was pathetic. "Okay," She said quickly. "I'm willing to do that."

"Very well, then. We have a deal."

"There's no deal, Hussein! You don't know who she's working with. We're not giving her anything. And that gold doesn't belong to you. It belongs to your country and to the other nations who've made deposits."

"If you don't deal with me, then you both die," She told them returning to normal volume as the ground stabilized. "And Dubai will perish with you. At least if you work with me there's a chance the country will return to power. I have friends who can help. We have the same goals, just different methods of achieving them."

"Are you listening to her Chopra? I'm sixteen. I'm not going to die. Now you work for me, old man. You take orders from me! And this is what we're going to do!"

"Don't make this mistake," Chopra said. "Let me talk to you alone. Let me tell you about what your father really wanted. Let me share with you my own dreams for our country."

"_Our _country?"

"Yes. Ours."

"You're from India."

"But my heart is in Dubai, with you. Don't make this deal with the devil. You haven't given me a chance to speak with you, to express your father's wishes, to share with you all the things- all the dreams- he shared with me."

The Empress grinned darkly at the boy. "He's quite dramatic. This is, in the end, nothing more than business. And we both know that."

"Dubai will never rise again," Said Hussein. "It's nuked. It's dead. Just a contaminated junkyard."

"Please, Hussein, you can't think that way," Said Chopra. "You must listen to me!"

"All I can do now is take some of that gold and try to build a future for myself and mys sisters. And that's exactly what I'm going to do. Do you hear me, Chopra?"

"No, you're wrong. This is wrong! Please, Hussein, I'm begging you..."

"No more talk, old man," Said The Empress. "The young Sheikh has made up his mind."

* * *

Dib sprayed himself a tight path through the burning grass, then tossed the extinguisher down to Heston, who seized it and continued hosing down the hatch area.

With eyes tearing heavily, Dib hoisted the still unconscious Pak over his shoulders and, with Lakota's help, climbed out of the Sphinx and began running through the foam covered path paralleled on both sides of the rising flames. Dib could do little more than run half blinded, the footfalls, screams, and the pounding of his heart driving him on as once more images of fireballs swelled in his mind's eye. Oh, yes, there in his mind, the images were quite clear.

The blaze of glory he sought was suddenly not far out of reach. He realized the grass fire would ignite the fumes inside the Sphinx's ruptured fuel tanks. And within a few more seconds twin booms resounded behind him, followed by a concussion that swept him off his feet. He smashed into the ground, and Pak went tumbling off his back.

Copeland was at his side as he hit the ground. Dib rolled over and rubbed his eyes. "I'm good. It's Pak! It's Pak!"

"Roger that, sir, I got him."

As the medic began examine Pak, Dib sat on his rump and his vision began to clear. He was trying to catch his breath but almost lost it again as he took in his surroundings. The landscape had contorted into a post apocalyptic charcoal painting, with a ribbon of mottled white separating two fields of unrelenting fire. Those fields swept out toward a greater curtain of flames beneath which lay the shattered remains of the Sphinx, its rotors tipped forward into the dirt but still rotating like a massive pair of grass edgers.

The fuselage of the craft had split in two and was bathed in orange and blue beneath the faint shadow of the wings, one intact, the other hanging half off at an improbable angle. A mound of still settling earth completely obscured the aircraft's nose, where yet another dust cloud was still rising into the air. And above it all hung the morning sky filling steadily with side columns of black smoke, Irken and Russian craft alike, large and small, engaging one another in a battle for control like no other seen before.

Lakota was muttering a roll call to herself, while the pilot and co-pilot were just behind Dib, talking with the tower and their superiors on portable radios.

Dib coughed, cleared his throat, and activated his Cross-Com. "Hammer, this is Ghostex Lead, over."

Parsons appeared in a data box in one corner of his HUD. "Ghostex Lead, this is Hammer. We've got evac transports en route. ETA should be ten minutes."

"Roger that. I've got a man down and a sky busier than A'stan on a weekday. What the hell's going on?"

"The Irken's know she's in London, Dib. They're dropping in ground troops. Could be a full two battalions. But I guess the Russians are finally coming out from the shadows for a little revenge."

"They're fools. We'll cut em' off. As for infrastructure damage, you'll have to talk to the Russians about that. Looks like they're hitting the Irkens pretty hard and with everything they've got."

"Roger that, Lieutenant. This might just be a diversion. We haven't picked up Storr or Prokofiev Delta yet, but we know they're there somewhere. We finally got Warda to talk, and we have the location of the boy. He's near Sandhurst. GPS coordinates uploading now but we can't get our satellites in close enough for a look without the Irkens destroying them. The Russians are also using scramblers and jamming rigs. You'll proceed there immediately. The Volker's will rendezvous, but they'll get there first."

"Roger that, Hammer."

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a little problem in London."

"Yes," Dib looked to the battle cruiser and fighter jet filled skies. "You do..."

Dib blinked hard to clear his vision, then regarded Copeland, who was holding an oxygen mask up to Pak's face. Pak was conscious and breathing steadily.

"He'll be alright. Might be a little high for a while." Said the medic. "Fumes got to him before he could mask up."

"Thanks, bro. Good job. I mean it."

"Thank you, sir. You sure you're all right? Looks like you can use a little more oxygen, too."

"No, no, I'm good. I've just never liked flying."

Copeland cracked a smile. "Me either, sir. And I hate landing even more." Copeland motioned toward the burning Sphinx with the tilt of his head.

Dib gave a little snort and shook his head at the burning field. Then he turned back.

Clouds of dust rose in the distance like small dust devils, and Lakota, who'd lifted a pair of binoculars to her face, cried. "Here come our rides! Get ready to saddle up!"

She then jogged over to Dib. "Saw the new GPS on target."

"Yep."

"You think she's still there?"

Dib took a long breath. "Without eyes in the sky? All we can do is hope- and get our asses in gear."

* * *

The Brits had sent out a pair of Huskies that resembled US Army HMMWV or "Humvee" but were smaller, so the team had been forced to pile into the small flatbeds. The vehicles were normally crewed by four, but these had only a driver and a gunner manning the big fifty caliber M2HB out back. Dib rode shotgun in one truck, Lakota the same in the other.

While en route to Sandhurst, Parsons told Dib that the helicopter transports she'd secured were now unavailable, so they were forced to take the Huskies all the way down to Sandhurst, at least a two hour drive through rolling countryside. He reminded parsons of the crash landing and lack of satellite and helicopter support, that these were circumstances beyond his control and that the time delay might result in loss of the target.

"I understand that, Lieutenant. But you have your orders. And your mission. Hammer out."

She didn't want to hear it. And if the op went south again, he would take the fall. She'd already gone to bat for him and couldn't do any more. So now he could play it two ways: be the stressed out maniac barking at his people... Or remain cool, calm, and collected, a man already resigned to his fate who stared into the sun as it was about to explode and said, "_No problem, people. Let's get to work."_

He leaned over to the driver. "We need to be there yesterday."

"Right. Tell your folks out back to hand on. There's nothing I like more than breaking the speed limit!"

Dib smiled. "You and me both! Go for it!" He then passed the word back to the others as the Husky leaped forward with a roar and subsequent vibration working up through the reinforced floor.

After a burst of static, Jorge Volker appeared in Dib's HUD: "Ghostex Lead, this is Romulus, over."

"Go ahead, Romulus."

"We should be at the target coordinates in about thirty minutes. Suggest we move in immediately and try to secure the target, over."

The word _Negative _was about to escape Dib's lips, and he was certain that Jorge expected him to deny the request and order him to set up an observation post and wait for them. But it was all about timing, not ego, and the Irken attack had no doubt alerted The Empress. She was a fool if she wasn't already on the move, and they needed to check out the leads quickly and efficiently.

"Romulus, I wan you guys all over that location. You get in there and try to take her alive. But if not, you know what to do. No delays."

Jorge appeared a little flabbergasted, his face shimmering a bit in the HUD, but then his voice came steadily. "Roger that, Lieutenant."

"And keep your channel open, I want full access to your cameras."

"Will do. Romulus out."

As he settled deeper into the seat, Dib wondered if they hadn't given him The Empress job as a way to ditch a troublemaker. They were always two steps behind her, and the more he failed, the easier it was for them to burst him down and out.

Now he was just being paranoid, and he wasn't the biggest troublemaker in the group. They'd given him the job because they knew he wouldn't play it by the book. Never really did.

He got back on the Cross-Com, called Parsons and asked to speak directly to Warda if he could. He waited. Five minutes later he had the women on the line. His focus was on the vehicles owned by her brother's staff. She didn't know tag numbers but had a general idea of style and color. He asked Parsons to relay the details to the local authorities. She said she was right on it.

Suddenly, a fist was rapping on the cab's back window. It was Daugherty, looking wide eyed and pointing above them.

Dib thrust his head out the open top hatch as two helicopters swept overhead. The lead one, a dark grey Mil Mi-35V XE10, one of the deadliest gunships encountered before Russia was blasted off the planet, zipped overhead, RF flag painted on the tail. The choppers frame remained same as the Mil Mi-24, but with upgraded armor and weapons. The 12.7mm nose cannon was replaced with a six barrel 40mm autocannon, a 30mm 2A42 light anti tank weapon mounted beside the 40mm. The areas in front of the cargo bay doors were cut out and GAU-19/As were mounted in the open gaps to cover dismounting troops and engage other air units.

The Russian gunship was being tailed by an American gunship, a USMC AH-1Z, following close behind the Russian bird, firing it's own nose cannon in an attempt to bring down the Russian gunship, the rounds and tracers missing as the XE10 swept down toward the field. And then more rotors drew closer, and with an immediate roar, one more Russian XE10 appeared, and fired on the American chopper, chewing the tail section apart as the 40mm opened up at a rate of 2,700 rounds per minute.

All of it happening not more than five hundred meters ahead, the first Russian helicopter descending to less than a hundred meters above the road. It was, in a word, surreal to see Russian Federation military aircraft flying over the U.K. and being engaged by Americans. Even their driver remarked on the audacity of it all. Obviously, US forces had been called in to assist, but now it seemed that the lone American bird could use some help.

"Can you tell your gunners to put some fire up there to help him out?"

"Negative!"

"Why the hell not?"

"Because- you dumb Yank- that'll draw fire on us! And because I'd have to call for authorization."

"Authorization? We're not sitting here to watch those pilots die! You get some fire on those enemy birds!"

"No, I won't! The Russians are his problem, I don't know why he even engaged them, they're quarrel is with the Irkens, not you Americans! Besides, you have a mission, right?"

Dib gritted his teeth. A fellow combatant needed him. "Ghostex Team, this is Ghostex Lead. Relieve those gunners of their duty, at gunpoint if necessary. Heston? Daugherty? I want you on those fifties. Lay down some fire on those Russian birds now!"

"Lieutenant, you'll get us killed!" Hollered the driver.

Dib glared at him. "If I do, I'll make sure you die first."

(End Chapter)


	12. Chapter 11

"We were born to make fantasy become reality. To overcome atmospheric air and open outer space. And instead of a heart - a flaming engine. And believe us, each ultimatum given, the air fleets will be the answer, and we will be triumphant!" - Russian Federation Air Fleet Marshal

* * *

Chapter Eleven

**Ghostex: Delta 6 Team**

**En Route to Sandhurst **

"Lieutenant, don't let them fire," Said Lakota from the other Husky. "Check it out. We're rolling up on another neighborhood. Collateral damage."

Dib couldn't deny the fact that civilians could be injured or killed should one of those choppers go down into the homes. Of course neither Russian or Irken forces didn't care if any of the fighting factions crashed into a residential neighborhood; they just wanted enemy aircraft out of the sky and gain air superiority. And it was no doubt firing on them would draw a response. Those Russian choppers, identified in Dib's HUD as Mil Mi-35V XE10s or "Super Hind" for short, noted as being one of the most armed and armored helicopters in existence, could tear their little trucks to shreds as they had the AH-1Z in all of five seconds. And it was Dib's job to reach Sandhurst.

He cursed and hollered into his boom mike: All right, stay on the guns but hold fire for now. Be ready in case they turn on us."

"Thanks, Lieutenant."

"Now that's a sane choice," Said the driver.

"Shut up, Brit. Those pilot's are going to die. We'll honor them with our silence. And is that as fast as you can go?"

The driver swore under his breath and accelerated even as in the far distance, Dib watched as the American gunship was double teamed by the two Russian helicopters, while yet another Russian chopper, a large transport known as the Mil Mi-26 Halo, followed behind, above the buildings. A missile ripped away from one of the Super Hinds, and within a breath the American bird vanished inside an orb of white light. Below that orb, in an eerie slow motion, debris appeared and began tumbling down toward the streets of the residential homes. The two choppers broke formation and wheeled back around toward the north, while the third, much larger troop transport continued southward, ahead of them.

The driver got on his radio and called in his report, while Dib was interrupted by word of Jorge Volker: They were just a couple of minutes away from the target location. Dib issued a voice command to his Cross-Com, bringing up camera images from both Jorge and Tristan Volker in separate windows of the HUD. He took a deep breath and waited as their car raced up a narrow suburban street.

* * *

"Looks like a police checkpoint," Said Chopra, his mouth going cotton as he eased on the brakes.

The barricade lay about two blocks ahead as they were passing through the rural village of Flexford, according to the car's GPS. The Empress had ordered him to keep off the main highways, and this was the first barrier they'd come across. It was comprised of two police cruisers parked at forty five degree angles on either side of the fluorescent red cones spanning the road.

The roadblock appeared about as dangerous and imposing as a little old man armed with a water pistol, and Chopra doubted it would pose much trouble to the Irken in his backseat.

"All right, calm down," Said The Empress. "Drive right up and speak to them."

"What do I tell them?" Asked Chopra.

"The truth."

"Excuse me?"

"I said the truth."

He wasn't sure what this crazy Irken had in mind, but he decided he would do just that.

As he drew closer, he saw two officers armed with light body armor and UMP-45 sub machine guns. The Empress, she suspected, could dispatch the both of them with barely an effort.

"Chopra, don't do anything stupid," Said Hussein. "Just hand over your identity and tell them we're going to Dover. The truth. Just like she said." He looked back to The Empress, who nodded.

With a deep breath he brought the car to a stop before the cones and tapped the button to lower his window. One officer came up to him as the other went around the other side of the car, both grasping their weapons with both hands. They were both middle aged men, setting up this roadblock was probably the most exciting thing to happen to them in weeks.

"Good morning, sir. Your identification, please?"

Chopra had already withdrawn his wallet and was about to hand over his ID when a thump made him flinch. The officer fell back, away from the car.

She'd shot him right over Chopra's shoulder.

Before he hit the ground, The Empress wrenched open her door and slammed it into the second officer who was raising his own weapon, the impact of the door sent him to the ground as The Empress stepped out and took aim. Her gun went off twice more. She reentered the car and slammed the door. "Go. There'll be another car waiting for us in Chilworth."

Chopra threw the car in gear and floored it, crashing through the cones and leaving the bodies of the two officers behind. He glanced at them in the rear view mirror, then rasied his voice. "You see, Hussein? You see who you're dealing with? A thug. A murderer. A defective Irken who gets off on killing innocent people. Nothing more. And when she's done with us, we'll be shot, just like them."

"You didn't have to kill them," Hussein told The Empress.

"No, I didn't. I wanted to."

"Like I said. A defective Irken who gets off on it."

She gave a big snort. "And it's all for my own entertainment pleasure- not yours."

* * *

Dib didn't realize that he was clutching the seat with both hands until a sudden bump broke his grip. Jorge and Tristan had just left their cars and were charging up on the house, and he was watching it all in his HUD, the images piped in from the Quad goggles worn by each Phoenix. The two spies found the body of a man lying at the far end of the driveway, near the side door. At that point, they split up, with Jorge taking the side entrance and Tristan falling back to hold off in the yard, in case anyone tried to bolt as Jorge entered.

No, Dib wasn't fond of a single operator entering the house and attempting to clear room after room, but this was the best they could do, and posting Tristan outside to tag potential runners was a smart move. Bringing in a team of local police to back them up would've been too obvious and noisy; however, sending Jorge was, admittedly, not conductive to the Phoenix's health. Then again, he'd served in the Marines and had been well trained. You had to give him the benefit of the doubt.

The images came in from Jorge's goggles.

Bodies in the kitchen. Damn.

"You seeing this, Lieutenant?" Jorge asked.

"She was there," Said Dib. "We might be late. Now all we do is follow the trail of bodies..."

Tristan began cursing over the channel until his words turned into a warning: "Irken Voot landing in the street! Troopers dismounting! Jorge, get out of there!"

Jorge rushed to the window, and Dib saw what the spy saw: at least a dozen darkly clad Irken troopers- Storm Elites- were hustling down the rear ramp that slammed the ground as it dropped, and the last man to dismount was their Irken friend from the Seychelles, Storr.

"Hammer, this is Ghostex Lead. The Volkers are on the target zone but so are the Irkens , along with Storr. We're too far right now. We need some CAS for them, if you got it."

"Negative."

Dib swore and switched channels. "Romulus, this is Ghostex Lead. You're on your own for now."

"Just another day in paradise." Jorge bounded up the staircase.

"Jorge, I'm coming in," Said Tristan.

"No, you fall back, out of sight. You come in here, you're done, you hear me? I'll get out. _Do not _give up your location. Just do what I say."

Dib could barely contain himself as he witnessed Jorge's escape. At the top of the stairs, the Phoenix turned right, then left, then rushed toward a door and slammed it open with a fist. He stopped. Looked. Listened.

"You hearing this, Lieutenant?"

"Negative."

"Sounds like a-"

"More trouble!" Hollered Tristan.

Before Jorge was able to finish his sentence, a large grey chopper filled up Tristan's camera feed. A Russian Mil Mi-26 Halo, and with a start, Dib realized that the same troop transport they'd just seen had been en route to Sandhurst.

Even before the landing gear touched down on the concrete, troops were dismounting from the over sized chopper. But as much troops as the chopper could carry, only a handful of troops dismounted. Heavy weapons, heavy armor and now hustling down the street in a full sprint as the nose of the chopper tilted right as it lifted off.

With a closer look, Dib had realized Jorge was in big trouble if he came face to face with these Prokofiev Delta units. He was just hoping that Jorge could slip out and let the Russian Spec Ops engage the Irken Storm Elites.

"Storm Elite's entering the downstairs area. Prokofiev Delta less than two hundred meters from the front door." Reported Tristan.

Jorge rushed forward, through what had to be a teenager's room loaded with games and movies. He reached the window and tugged it open, and then he was all about his portable scaling tools, wrenching them from his web gear. He fire a zip line across to the next house, and the "sticky mount" stuck like superglue to the outside of the house.

He climbed through the window and was sliding down the line with a whir and hiss.

It was impossibly frustrating not to be there and lend a hand. Dib reached reflexively for his sidearm to take out the Storm Elites as he imagined them bursting into the bedroom only seconds after Jorge got out. But all Dib could do was watch Jorge gliding down toward the next house as plasma fire suddenly punched holes in the wooden siding ahead of him.

Before Jorge reached the house he fired another line at a shed lying across the backyard. The sticky mount struck the sloping roofline. Jorge grabbed that line in one hand and fired a third shot. Line number three attached itself to the roof of the current building. Using the shed line as a guide, he released the first line, gripped the second, then swung around, out of the enemy fire. It was a brilliant piece of maneuvering that left Dib awestruck.

Once around the next house, he slid down the rope and hit the ground hard, lost his balance, and tumbled.

"Tristan, fall back even more, Get over that fence and wait for me. I think there's a shed."

"Roger that."

Jorge was up on his feet now, running at full tilt along the row of apartments. He ducked behind a pair of parked cars and paused.

The Phoenix's own labored breathing raised Dib's pulse, and it was getting even harder to watch this engagement unfold.

Meanwhile, Tristan scaled the fence his brother had mentioned, dropped behind, and spotted a small utility shed. He bounded for the shed, wrenched open the door, and stepped inside between pieces of lawn and landscaping equipment. He quietly closed the door and stood there, staring through the dust covered window and just breathing. "I'm inside the shed," He reported. "Hidden pretty good."

"I see that. Stay there," Said Jorge.

Dib longed to pull up a close in satellite view of the area so he could tell Jorge where the Elites and Delta units were moving. The team had nothing, though, technology rendered useless by more technology and weapons. They would rely now on their good old fashioned wits to escape now.

Tristan remained in the shed, staring through that dusty window at the second story of the apartment. He could see the Storm Elites appearing in the window from where Jorge had escaped. They were tearing up the house, while one remained there, sweeping the yard with his scoped plasma an audible shiver, Tristan swore again as the Irkens shouted to each other in their own language on the other side of the fence.

Dib could barely breathe now as he checked the images coming in from Jorge's goggles. "Jorge, just get some cover like your brother and wait for us."

"That;s the plan," Said Jorge. "That's the plan." He burst up from the parked cars.

From around the corner of the next apartment building came two of the Irken Storm Elites- Grim Reapers dressed in black armor consisting mostly of metal, with black helmets and Kevlar balaclavas concealing their identities. If you asked Jorge, they all looked the same.

They were about fifty meters away.

Jorge dropped to the ground and shot one guy in the face with his pistol, the round striking the face plate and sending the Irkens head snapping back, Jorge fired again, the round striking the Irkens neck, he slumped and hit the ground hard as the other Storm Elite ducked as Jorge did. Plasma bolts struck the cars behind him as he jogged around and sought cover once more.

Dib wanted to scream at the Phoenix, tell him not to remain there in a standoff while that Irken called for backup. But Jorge was a seasoned veteran and didn't need Dib pointing out the obvious. In fact, Jorge did something remarkable again. He suddenly broke from cover and darted to the building, even as the Elite, who'd sought refuge behind the corner, eased out for another look, the top of his helmet jutting out.

While the Irken's gaze was reaching out toward the car, Jorge came at him from the side, sliding an arm around the Irken's head while raising a combat knife high in the air with his free hand.

Jorge plunged the knife deep into the Irken's neck, just north of where his clavicle would be if her were human, then Jorge grabbed the hilt and got to work. To say that Jorge opened up the Irken's neck like a Pez dispenser would be understanding the point, and Dib had a front row seat to all the carnage. He grimaced.

Jorge dropped the body and shifted to the front side of the apartment. He hunkered down beside a row of shrubs and stole a look out at the Voot Cruiser sitting in the field across the street.

_Oh, no,_ Dib thought. _I hope he's not thinking what I'm thinking... _

Two civilians had come out of their homes, one holding a kitchen knife, the other an antique looking pistol. They were a husband and wife team, white haired, wizened, and wild, and they waved and shouted as two Storm Elite's who'd been stationed just outside the Voot drifted toward them.

"No, don't do it," Dib muttered aloud.

One of the Irken's raised his weapon, about to fire and shoot down the civilians execution style as the other just stood there and watched, his devilish, zipper toothed smile hiding under the balaclava and metal mask. The one who just stood there punched his subordinate in the shoulder and yelled in Irken 'Fire!', the sound of gunfire erupted a few meters from Jorge's positioned, and in a few short moments, the Irken Storm Elites were cut to ribbons and lied dead on the ground, emerald blood pooling around them.

"Get back to house!" A voice came in a thick Russian accent.

A man appeared, waving that civilians back to their houses, then turning back and waving to someone invisible to Jorge, then, five other troops, human, wearing the same uniform as the man who wielded the light machine gun appeared and he pointed at the house of which was Dib's target house. They all moved in crouched positions, their barrels aimed at every window and door they could cover as they closed in on the house.

Jorge whispered into his microphone as he found cover. "Tristan, stay in the shed."

"I will."

Jorge sighed into his microphone. "Storm Elite's must've found our car by now. We can't get out on foot or by car if the Irken's still got that bird."

"Jorge, don't even think about it," Said Tristan.

"Jorge, just dig in and don't do anything," Said Dib. "That's an order!"

"Too late."

"Volker!" Dib cried. "What're you doing!?"

The image from Jorge's goggles grew shaky and Dib couldn't see anything. But he could hear the man breathing. Faster and faster. Panting now.

* * *

The Empress let out a faint snort as she glanced sidelong at Hussein. The boy was staring out the window, looking bored and about to fall asleep as they continued to Dover.

Chopra was droning on and on about what the boy's father had wanted for him, and the old man's cadence and tone had become yet another form of white noise, like the wind buffeting the car, the engine's hum, and the steady vibration of the tired on the pavement.

Even The Empress herself was beginning to drift off, barely listening, reminding herself that if she didn't keep her guard up, the six teen year old beside her could launch a surprise.

Abruptly, her cell phone rang. "You'll be met at Dover," Said Patti. "They know you're coming."

"Excellent. Thank you."

"I'll see you in Geneva. Excellent work, as always."

"You might want to call Tak and thank her as well."

Patti laughed. "I'm sure she'd appreciate that."

The Irkens- in their attempt to capture her- had inadvertently helped her escape. It seemed they might come in handy now, and she thought about manipulating them to her benefit in the near future.

For just the briefest of moments, though, she took herself back to the tiny town on Banff, just off the Trans-Canada Highway, seventy eight miles west of Calgary. She was with Green Vox, the terrorist leader of the Green Brigade whose identity was kept a secret so that he could "live forever" through any number of followers assuming his role. Together they had chosen Banff so they could be upwind from the nuclear fallout, once she had detonated the nukes. But the entire operation had been foiled by the Americans. No matter. She had other plans.

She shot him between those eyes.

Now as she sat in the car, she realized that an aching fear had brought on the memory. She was worried about whether the Green Brigade Transnational had given up on their quest for revenge. Perhaps her work in previous encounters had reminded them of the futility of getting too close to her.

The Americans and Irkens were too predictable, But like the Russians... They were the wold cards and could appear at any time without any warning. Just like the Russian Federation seemed to appear out of nowhere and attack the Irkens. And as she'd speculated, the Green Brigade could be getting leads from Tak, who'd perhaps hired them as mercenaries in addition to her "official" efforts involving Storr and the Irken Spec Ops. Tak was a clever one who could be feeding information to the Brigade that she wasn't sharing with Storr. She might even be playing them against each other and would reward only the victors. She knew her too well, knew that all she cared about were end results and that people were disposable, people like her husband and brothers.

In The Empress's Irk, loyalty was a spring flower that wilted far too quickly without water.

"We're almost out of gas," Chopra said, wrenching her from her thoughts.

"Then you'll stop at the next petrol station."

"I don't have cash, and if we use cards they will find us."

"Exactly."

"Please don't kill anyone else."

She took a deep breath. "If they cooperate, I won't. But I make no promises."

"How did you get to be so deplorable?"

She attempted to speak softly and not through her teeth. "I used to think they made me who I am. But I've always had a choice. So I choose to be this way."

"Why?"

She let the question hang for a moment, then said, "Because I will never become their victim."

"How would you become their victim? And who are they?"

"Doesn't matter."

"What happened to you? I'm sure you were a little girl once. A sweet child."

She closed her eyes for a moment. "That opportunity is robbed from us all at birth..."

* * *

Dib wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn't help himself. He was as much horrified and fascinated by Jorge Volker's insanity... Or bravery- the line between them was often indistinct.

The Irken pilot and co-pilot were in the cockpit of the Voot Cruiser and could effortlessly lift the twin plasma cannons mounted under the nose, bringing it to bear. But Jorge knew that as well, which was why he jogged along the front on the apartments, keeping low and breaking cover only at the last second to run as the Voot, rear back, and hurl his grenade, one of six "Ghostex: Delta 6 specials" given to him by Dib.

Just as the pilot swung his gun around, the fins and engine on Jorge's grenade activated, and the tiny missile streaked into the open bay door.

The swoosh was followed immediately by a muffled explosion that echoed strangely louder from inside the Voot.

The explosion was clearly not enough to destroy the bird, but the pilot and co-pilot had to be seriously injured, Dib thought. Thick smoke poured from the open bay door, yet the engines still gave off a dull hum. A moment later, one battered Irken fell out of the bay door, got up, staggered for a moment, and fell. The other pilot never appeared.

As expected, the explosion drew the attention of the rest of the Storm Elite's. and even as Jorge began hightailing it back out of there, the camera images making Dib dizzy, the window showing his input went blank for a second.

Plasma fire boomed. And then that "blank screen" turned out to be the pavement as the camera was raised, and it appeared some was holding Jorge's Quad goggles.

An unhelmeted and unmasked Storr came to the image, cocky, smug Irken expression. "Hello, hello, Americans! I see you, too, have come hunting. Until we meet again." Storr dropped the goggles, and he might've stomped on them because the signal cut off.

Tristan screamed into the microphone, and Dib got on his channel. "Don't you move. You stay there. I've lost one man, and I won't lose another, do you hear me, Tristan?"

"No way. I'm going!"

"If you go, you die, you die like a fool. That's not what your brother wants. Do what he said. Stay there! We're coming for you!"

Dib regarded the driver. "You need to get us there, now!"

The driver gritted his teeth and accelerated even more, as Tristan once more announced that he was going after his brother.

Dib wondered what he would do were he in that shed and his own brother had just been killed. Hiding would feel like an act of cowardice. He should face his brother's killers. So he understood, in part, how Tristan felt, but remaining wasn't being a coward; it was being smart, and Dib so much as told the man that.

"Just stay there, buddy. Stay there."

"I'm not leaving him there." Tristan lapsed into a string of curses.

"Just listen to me, bro. You got a whole squad of Elites out there. Prokofiev Delta could be American hostile. There's only one of you. I need you alive. You hear what I'm saying? I need you to stay there. That's all you have to do. Just sit tight. We'll get Jorge. He's not going to lie there for long. Just believe me, all right?"

Tristan kept swearing. "This is not the way it was supposed to happen. I'm the one who should've died! I'm the loser, not him! I'm the loser."

"Just calm down. We're on our way."

(End Chapter)


	13. Chapter 12

"Soldiers can sometimes make decisions that are smarter than the orders they've been given." - Orson Scott Ford

* * *

Chapter Twelve

**Ghostex: Delta 6 Team**

**En Route to Sandhurst **

Dib had assumed that Storr and his Storm Elite's would call for immediate evac. They Voot had been damaged, the pilots injured or killed.

But the Irkens weren't going anywhere.

In fact, they were digging in around the target house, setting up defensive positions, and pretty much taking their time. A team inside was tearing the place to shreds in search of The Empress or any evidence that would lead to her location.

Much to Dib's chagrin, Tristan did leave the shed, but only after the troops turned more attention back on the house. He'd made a successful break.

Now he was at his brother's side. The Irkens had stripped him Jorge of all his gear but had left the body there. They couldn't operate Jorge's Cross-Com or OPSAT or any of his other communications devices, but the Irkens loved to reverse engineer anything they could get their hands on.

As Tristan held his brother in his arms, Dib urged the man to take cover, reminding him that the Ghostex team would be there in less than ten minutes.

"I don't care," Said Tristan. "I just don't care anymore."

Dib was at a loss. You could train operators time and time again on how to deal with death and that you could never, ever afford a breakdown in the field. You owed it to yourself, your people, your country and your entire planet to remain strong- and alive- because there would be plenty time, to grieve later. Everyone knew that. Everyone believed in it. But you never knew how you'd react if death was staring you in the face and it was your turn to feel the cold chill close, so very, very close...

Nevertheless, this Tristan Volker guy had been an enigma from the beginning, and his dossier raised many unanswered questions, which in turn rasied Dib's brows: Tristan had attended Florida State University and majored in psychology. At the time he'd no desire to raise above slackerdom, let alone join the military like his brother had. He'd changed majors three times and had finally wound up with an English degree, which he did nothing with for ten years. When he wasn't taking, dropping, or flunking out of graduate courses, he'd been, in no particular order, a pizza delivery guy, an apartment building maintenance man, a clerk at a local video store, and an attendant at the skate park where he rented canoes. He'd volunteered at a local library and at the local animal shelter on Captiva Island, Florida. He built houses for Habitat for Humanity. He fed homeless people during the holidays, even when he was only a paycheck or two away from being homeless himself.

This was not the profile on one of America's most cunning and lethal covert operatives.

Meanwhile, his brother moved up quickly though the ranks and had made a name for himself in the Marines and Force Recon. Jorge was a textbook operator, exactly the kind of man you'd expect to find in the Third Echelon.

When Tristan had been recruited by Grimsdottir, he'd initially declined, admitting he was not cut out for this kind of work. She'd offered him a sex figured salary to entice him, and though Tristan finally agreed, he'd flunked out of the training program three times before receiving a provisional pass. He was no man of action, as evidenced bu several broken bones and other assorted injuries during past operations. But he was, as Grimsdottir had carefully noted in his record, meant to serve as his brother's primary alibi and not necessarily his field partner. Third Echelon had been experimenting for years with team operations: large groups, small groups, and pairs, but the implication in Tristan's dossier was that he should be a human mannequin, meant to stand around and look pretty but do nothing.

Jorge was to keep him on a tight leash.

Unfortunately, that was now Dib's job.

"Tristan, it's time to go," Dib told him for the ninth time, checking his HUD maps of the area. "Take Copperfield Avenue northeast toward the woods. Shooting you the grid points now. Go around past the academy, and just keep moving through. We'll link up with you there."

"I'm taking Jorge with me."

"We'll come back for him. I promise. You _cannot _afford to be captured."

"I'm not leaving my brother!"

Dib wanted to scream, but didn't. "You need to go."

Tristan hesitated.

"Volker, I'm warning you..."

"I know! I know..."

Dib hardened his voice. "Then... Get out of there. Run! Right now!"

"We can't run. We need to make them pay!"

"We will. Soon."

"I need your word!"

"Jesus, dude, you got it. Just go!"

"All right. You watch this..."

Tristan's tone was beginning to harden, too, and that was a relief. Dib needed him angry enough to stay alive so he could exact revenge. There would come a time. After a deep breath audible through his microphone, the Phoenix took off in an impressive sprint, but not before shouting erupted behind him, along with plasma fire.

"They've tagged you!" Cried Dib.

Tristan cursed and bolted even faster down the street, ducking behind a row of parked cars. He glanced over his shoulder.

Three Irken Storm Elite's charged after him.

* * *

Manoj Chopra pulled into the petrol filling station as The Empress called it.

There were no other cars.

The Empress instructed Chopra to shut off the engine and hand her the keys. She took them and said, "Everybody out."

"Please, no violence," Said Chopra.

She didn't answer.

They went into the small convenience store, where two old men stood behind the counter.

Without a word, The Empress rasied her pistol, even as Chopra gasped.

The men barely had time to widen their eyes before they went tumbling to the floor.

It all happened too quickly for Chopra to fully comprehend. That someone would kill in such a cool and casual manner woke a hard shudder across his shoulders.

Hussein seemed less surprised this time, glancing up at her and asking in an eerily calm voice, "Can I get a drink before we leave?"

"Get me one, too," She said. "Some juice."

"Okay."

"Are we this cavalier about murder!?" Shouted Chopra.

The Empress rolled her eyes, crossed around the counter, and began working one of the touch screen computers to activate the fueling pump.

"If you're hungry or thirsty, better shop now," She told him, a grin nicking the edge of her mouth.

Chopra eyed the men lying behind the counter. He had no thirst, no appetite. Blood pooled around their bodies.

"I thought you promised not to kill," He said.

"I did not," She spat back. "I said I make no promises. Let's go."

Chopra stared at her. "You're a monster. And if I didn't have something you wanted, you would've killed me back at the house."

"What's your point?"

"My point is that balance will return, once you and your kind are gone from this world. Balance will return."

She shrugged. "Get yourself some cookies, and get back in the car. Hussein? Have you pumped gasoline before?"

"You must be joking," Said the young Sheikh, handing her a bottle of juice.

She popped the cap. "There's a first time for everything."

* * *

Dib wasn't sure how many now, four or five maybe, but they were on Tristan's tail, gaining on him as he reached the heavily wooded perimeter of the Royal Military Academy. Because the Irkens had full control of the target area, this was at best a rescue operation of his remaining operator. They could engage in a stand up fight against the Irkens, but for what? He no longer believed they'd gain much from searching the house, and the Irkens might have already secured evidence that indicated The Empress had been there.

Dib repressed a chill. Was his career already over?

The Empress was gone.

_Over for now,_ he convinced himself. Parsons was working in coordination with a dozen other agencies, and Dib had just learned that the Russian jamming had stopped at the US Military's request, it seemed the Americans had new allies, for now, and Parsons had eyes in the sky that were busy probing every inch of the U.K. for their target.

Time wasn't just of the essence; it was everything now. If she got out of the U.K., he feared she could more easily drop off the grid. She no doubt had many contacts in Europe she'd made over the years, friends who owed her favors. She'd left herself much more vulnerable to link up with Chopra and Hussein. If she had both of them now, she need only disappear.

"Hammer, this is Ghostex Lead. Anything, over?"

"Still searching, Ghostex Lead..."

"Roger, still waiting." He winced over his sarcastic tone. There it was- the stress beginning to unravel him. He took a deep breath and glanced over to the driver, who returned the gaze. "What, Yank? Still not fast enough for you?"

"You're good. it's nothing."

* * *

Dib and his team were but five minutes from reaching the northeast perimeter of the forest when Parsons called. He'd thought he was being glib about following the trail of bodies to locate The Empress, but Parsons and her allies been doing just that:

Flexford. Roadblock. Two dead police officers.

The Empress had gone south, then had turned east and was now, perhaps, en route toward the coast to cross the English Channel and head into Europe. At least that was Parsons theory. The town of Dover was a major ferry port and about ninety kilometers away.

"There will be at least two or three obvious escape routes," Dib told Parsons. "And she'll have decoys, just like the Seychelles."

"We can't expect anything less."

"Right, so we need to track every vehicle between here and the coast," He said, his voice growing more emphatic.

"Dib, that's a huge search and a massive amount of data. The government's declared martial law, but there's a mad dash to the coast now, with thousands of cars on the road, and you know she could have changed vehicles."

"Maybe she didn't. Can the Russians help?"

"I'll do what I can. Hammer out."

Dib blinked hard and studied the terrain map and live satellite overlay in his HUD. Six Irken Storm elite's, identified as red blips, were closing in on one green blip, Tristan, who was still beating a serpentine path through the forest. The images streaming in from his goggles were blurry, jittery, but clearly noted his effort.

"Lakota, keep Tristan updated, over?"

"Roger, I'm on it," She said, then immediately began speaking to the Phoenix, feeding him data on the Irkens behind him so that he could concentrate on moving and communicating without splitting his attention between the course ahead and his own HUD. She would guide him directly toward their location.

The team came to a fork in the road, with the forest dead ahead, and Dib instructed both drivers to pull over and wait for them. In silence, the Ghostex team dismounted from both trucks and expertly fanned out in a split team formation, Lakota leading one group, Dib taking the other.

"Schleck, when we draw in, I need a sentinel, over."

"Just say the word," Came the sniper's immediate reply.

"Riggs, you, too," Dib added.

"Hope I don't break a nail," She said with a snort.

"All right, Ghostex, listen up. We'll flank, cross, and top down, with the package running a TD right up the middle."

"You read my mind," Said Lakota.

Dib jogged with the fear and enthusiasm of a first year junior cadet at West Point, threading through stands of large oaks and booting his way across a carpet of dirt and leaves. The air was much cooler and slightly damper.

Heston, Pak, and Noboru fanned out to the left, while Lakota, Daugherty, and Copeland shifted right. The plan was simple: Guide Tristan through the center of their flanking positions, toward the trucks. Once he passed, they would squeeze the belt on the approaching Storm Elite's and catch them in a cross fire- which was, in fact, a diversion that would allow Riggs and Schleck- the sentinels positioned in the trees- to shoot them from their overhead snipers' perches.

How much of that plan survived the first enemy contact was a question they had no time to pose-

Because in less than two minutes, they'd have their answer.

Lakota cursed.

"What?" Dib asked.

"Check the southern perimeter. Got what looks like Prokofiev Delta mixed with Spetsnaz troops moving into the woods. They must've spotted the Irkens."

Dib saw them, too. "Aw, man..."

"I know," She said.

"Cross-Com, this is Ghostex Lead," Dib called into his mic, activating the Cross-Com's new artificial intelligence feedback control.

"Go ahead, Ghostex Lead," Came the automated voice of a tactical super computer aboard a satellite hurtling some 220,000 miles over Dib's head.

"Lock on to all PAK data signals in the vicinity. All others in the area are IDed as friendlies, over."

"Roger. PAK DAS's locked. Friendlies identified. Four additional combatants moving into your AO. Are these contacts you with to ID as friendlies, over?"

"Roger!"

"Designating."

At least Dib's people wouldn't misidentify those Russian special forces troops more than likely deployed from one of the many Russian Battle Cruisers laying down some hard payback on the Irkens; they would appear as green blips in the team's HUDs. However, those Russian personnel could easily mistake a Ghostex operator for an enemy- after all, they were only wearing nondescript black fatigues. Of course, you had to think like a young military man whose country had just arose from the ashes, seeking revenge: Any guy with a gun who didn't look like human based military was an enemy.

Shoot first. Apologize later.

Dib notified the rest of the team about the Russian soldiers as he and the other group advanced toward their flanking zones. Their jobs were threefold now: rescue Tristan, ensure that the Russians did not interfere, and try to shield those soldiers from the Irkens. If they had to neutralize one of the Russians, they would do so with less than lethal fire, and his team members carried an assortment of such weapons.

Amazingly, the initial plan was still in place despite one unforeseen complication.

He grinned darkly to himself and jogged on behind Heston, Pak, and Noboru. They reached their positions, and he sent his three men ahead while he dropped behind a pair of trees and listened as Lakota instructed Tristan to begin turning northwest along a line that would take him directly between them.

"Riggs, Schleck, you up there?"

"Almost," Said Schleck, his voice tense.

"What's the delay?"

"Sorry, Lieutenant," Said Riggs."My fault. I needed his help. I'm up now."

"And so am I," Schleck reported.

"Stand by..."

Dib lost his breath as he eyed the HUD and saw the Irkens closing in on Tristan, coming within thirty meters. Plasma fire broke the still, damp quiet.

That fire had obviously come from the Irkens, and though Tristan's goggles, Dib noted the tress splintering and burning on Tristan's right side.

At nearly the same time, ballistic weapons fire echoed from the south- this from the two Russian teams who were closing in behind the Irkens.

Not good. One of their stray rounds could catch Tristan.

Dib watched now as two Irkens broke off from the chase to circle back on the Russians. He broke from his cover and ran parallel behind Heston, Pak, and Noboru. "Ghostex Team, I'm heading south after those two break off guys. Once Tristan is through the gap, Lakota, you put the snipers to work, over?"

"Roger that," She replied.

"Keep running, Tristan, you're almost there," Dib cried.

Only the Phoenix's panting came through the mic. He was at his top pace now, his heart rate in the red zone, and he was probably scared as hell as another salvo of plasma and gunfire erupted behind him.

Dib ducked and cut through another twenty meters of forest when, off to his right, about fifty meters away, he spotted Tristan dashing forward. Then he sw the Irkens. He was tempted to draw fire away, but he knew his people were in place. He kept on toward the two Elite's that had doubled back.

"Ghostex Lead, this is Hammer," Called Parsons. "I think we've got her!"

* * *

The Empress gritted her teeth as they reached the wall of traffic on the outskirts of Ashford. They were only about thirty or so kilometers away from Dover and she had kept them on the smaller country roads, but now there was a mass exodus toward the coast and Europe. Chopra turned on the radio, and the newscaster reported the chaos at the coast. The citizenry was relieved to hear Russia was pushing the Irkens out of the country, as well as assisting in evacuation efforts.

Chopra slumped toward the steering wheel. "There's nothing else we can do but sit here. The traffic must be backed up all the way to the coast."

"This is a brilliant escape plan you have," Said Hussein. "I guess you hadn't thought of this one, huh?"

"Shut up, both of you," She snapped. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and cleared her head.

Then she got on her smartphone and searched for the business she had in mind. "Get out of the car," She cried.

"Right here?" Asked Chopra. "We're just leaving it here?"

"Get out!"

They complied, and she hid her gun beneath her jacket as others began to follow suit, stepping out from their cars to stretch and have a look down the narrow road.

She ordered them forward the next corner, then made them begin to jog. The old man protested. She barked back. He ran for a block or so until he was winded. Within fifteen minutes they reached the shop.

"Oh, you can't be serious," Chopra said, his mouth opening in awe.

"You're damned right I am."

"I don't want to watch," He said.

"That's all right, you can close your eyes," She said.

They stepped into the bicycle shop, and she took care of the owner and his two technicians. They picked out hybrid bicycles with straight handlebars and rode out the back door. They took the alley up to the main road and cars. Riding the bike got her choked up. Kluu had won the Tour de France, only to be executed because of her. Perhaps his ghost had whispered the idea in her ear: _"You're not far from the coast, just a few hours by bike ride..." _

For some reason. the hair stood on the back of her neck and she felt compelled to glance skyward.

(End Chapter)


	14. Chapter 13

"As the concrete of the foundation started to set, they realized they lost a good friend today. But under the tyranny of the Irken Empire, the fact that it is still standing is pure defiance of what they represent. We survivors know they'll return, but this time, we'll be ready. We'll keep going until the foundation is built into a beacon of new found hope." - Major Tuvia, Prokofiev Delta, Team 1 Commander

* * *

Chapter Thirteen

**Forest near Target Location**

**Sandhurst **

Dib's HUD lit up like a Christmas tree.

No, it better resembled the lights of Times Square, New York, with enough color and flash to make him blink hard and imagine an elaborate advertisement- WWIII sponsored by your favorite cola or sports shoe.

He looked again and realized he didn't fully comprehend what the computer was showing him. A data bar below indicated the obvious:

Target acquired.

Guidance system nominal.

"Do you with to neutralize the target?"

Okay, he got it now. His race to this part of the forest had stolen his breath and blurred his vision. Data overload wasn't uncommon. As he gained back control of his breathing, the computer's voice purred in his ear, repeating the question, and with a sudden rush and shiver his senses connected with his brain and he saw it all:

The trees ahead-

The pair of Irkens beginning to fire on the four Russians, two Spetsnaz troops, two Prokofiev Delta Spec Ops, who'd spread out along a slight depression- And the wire frame targeting vector superimposed over it all that fed him the round's projected trajectory, replete with scrolling numbers that marked precise angles and distances.

Old schoolers argued that this was more information than Dib ever needed, but it was impressive nonetheless. The real and virtual worlds had blended into a battlefield of mathematical relationships and ever fluctuating calculations based on thousands of variables.

He took the shot.

The round that exploded from his rifles XM239 underslung grenade launcher was an advanced prototype of a Less Than Lethal (LTL) weapon developed by the NSA and engineers at Third Echelon. Based upon the old "sticky shocker" that rendered targets unconscious via an electrical impulse, the new LTL Track-Shock was a homing dart that used heat, infrared, and acoustical means to locate the target's heart and deliver the shock with surgical precision, increasing or decreasing current as acquired to render the target unconscious without killing him.

These weren't your grandmother's tranquilizer darts to bring down wild elephants. And your grandmother would keel over from a heart attack if she knew how much each round cost her and the rest of the taxpayers...

The Track-Shot sped away, trailing a single ribbon of thin smoke. It banked, turned, and wove through the trees as though it were being steered by an alcoholic cab driver on the last hour of an all night bender. But the round knew exactly what it was doing, and it sewed a remarkable if not chaotic course through the forest, only swooping down at the very last second to strike one of the Spetsnaz troops dead center of his chest. The man was racked by electricity for a second, shaking violently and involuntarily before he simply collapsed.

"Target temporarily neutralized. ETA to consciousness approximately eleven minutes. Warning clock initiated."

It had been a while since Dib had played with LTL ammunition. He wasn't used to his targets coming back from the "dead" like zombies, but it was nice to have a computer that reminded you when the zombie clock ran out. Without another second, he loaded another round and lifted the rifle. "Computer, acquire target."

"Stand by. Target acquired."

The HUD no longer resembled a skyline of neon billboards. The second Spetsnaz troop was there, at the end of the round's trajectory, and what had once been a dizzying kaleidoscope was not a perfect match equation within a fluctuating grid. The launcher thumped. The round shot hungrily away, and that eerie smoke trail stitched the trees together for a moment before the second Spetsnaz troop shook like he'd been playing golf during a lightning storm.

Nice.

As expected, the two Russians, noting that their brothers in arms had been "taken out", and Dib was certain they assumed their comrades were dead, broke from their positions and rushed off to the east.

What they didn't realize was that the pair of Irken Elite's had done likewise.

Those Russians were now rushing toward the Irkens in dark clad armor.

This was the part where Dib came in.

He swung around and started tracking back toward the Irken Elite's when-

"Ghostex Lead, this is hammer. Repeat, we've located her. Are you there, over?"

Dib had barely head Parsons call the first time and had been so swept up into the moment that only now did he realize he hadn't responded to her, which was damned ironic- since his entire career was now riding on her intel.

"Hammer, this is Ghostex Lead, stand by!"

"Lieutenant, I need you out of there."

"I need me out of here. I understand. Where is she? At the bar the Colonel told us about?"

"Negative."

"All right. Stand by."

Dib raced through the woods, foliage dragging across his arms and legs until he spotted the two Russians about forty meters to his right, with the Irkens charging toward them another forty or so meters out, 36.57 according to the tactical computer, but Dib ignored the detail at the moment, understandably so.

The one Elite to the far left darted behind a pair of trees and dropped down to one knee, while the second forged on, cutting loose with two salvos meant to draw fire on him, while his buddy cut down the unsuspecting Russians from his more concealed vantage point.

This was a rather unoriginal gambit that made Dib snort. He reached into his web gear, drew his favorite model grenade, and let the bird fly home to poop on the Irken crouched behind the trees. As the Russians opened fire on the first Irken, the second one exploded in a flash of light backfilled by a shower of blood.

Both of the Prokofiev Delta units dressed in digital flora uniforms turned in unison to spot Dib, just as he swung around, lifted his rifle, and fired on the second Irken, who'd dropped to the leaf covered forest. Dib was pretty sure he'd missed the guy, so he knifed off as though he had a 500 horsepower engine in his chest, covering the gap between him and his prey in all of half a dozen heartbeats.

When he arrived, the guy was gone.

He spun around, crouched. Looked up.

Son of a-

Dib glanced beyond the small clearing to the stand of trees from where the Elite emerged, the Irken's PRV-225 plasma rifle aimed squarely at Dib.

Only the Elite's eyes were visible, his mouth covered bu his Kevlar balaclava and metal face plating. But if eyes could smile menacingly, his did so.

A flurry of gunfire boomed in the distance.

That sound was enough to distract the Elite, and all Dib needed was a fraction of a second, that mere flick of the Irken's glance.

He fired at the extraterrestrial while falling backward, knowing the Elite would return fire simultaneously, and yes, Dib's instincts paid off. The Elite's rounds punched the air no more than three or four inches above Dib's chest as he hit the ground. On impact, Dib glanced up, never losing control of his rifle, and fired again, riddling the Elite with a full salvo. If the Elite wore overlapped silver plated armor or some other type of strange, unseen armor type, Dib's rounds had found the seems and went under them. The Elite slumped and didn't move.

Dib sighed deeply.

"Identify yourself!" Screamed one of the Prokofiev Delta troops, rushing up behind Dib, the guy held his rifle high and aimed it at Dib's head.

The first Russians partner ran up beside him. Leveling his machine gun on Dib as well.

"Do you speak English, comrade?" Cried the second guy.

"Don't you mean Yankee?" Dib asked.

"You're American?" Cried the first guy, lowering his weapon, his friend still leveling his machine gun. "You're lucky you're not dead."

"Then I guess this is my lucky day," Dib answered, wearing a silly grin.

"Ah, we have a wiseass." The second guy said, lowering the barrel of his machine gun.

"Go back to your comrades. They'll be waking up soon. We got it from here."

"Who's _we?"_ Asked the second guy.

"No one, really." With a groan, Dib hauled himself to his feet.

The first guy's eyes swelled. "You tell your Yankee friends that the Russian government will be lodging a formal complaint regarding your unauthorized actions here."

Dib shrugged. "We won't be staying long."

"It was a joke."

Dib nudged the Russian in the shoulder. "Soften your tone Ivan."

With that, he turned and raced away, stealing one last glance at the now snorting Russian as they turned to retrieve their Spetsnaz troops. "Lakota, how we doing?"

"Awesome, Boss. Dropped the Irkens. Tristan is back with us. Suggest we collapse on the trucks. Inbound aircraft, still unidentified..."

"Gotcha. On my way!"

* * *

The bike was old and rusty, the rear fender barely attached, the handlebars loose, the chain grinding as Chopra pedaled through the rut-laden street. The other kids stared at him in envy. The bicycle had been the last thing his father had given him before he'd been killed, and so in Chopra's young mind the bike had become the man. He would park it near his small bed and stare at it, well into the night.

He turned the corner and headed down into the alley, where he would meet his old boss who would give him the list of deliveries. The front basket would be filled with bidis, and Chopra would make his stops and collect the money. It was a lot of responsibility for a twelve year old.

When Chopra reached their usual meeting place, the old man was lying on the ground, bleeding from a gaping wound in his forehead. The boxes of bidis were empty. Chopra got off his bike, rushed to the man, and tried to comfort him, but he was scared that the people who had attacked the old man might still be around. He got back on his bike, raced home, and told his mother, begging her to send help. She did.

The next morning, Chopra returned to the alley, hoping the old man had recovered and the deliveries would happen as usual. The old man was gone, the empty boxes still lying there. Before Chopra could climb back on his bike, he was stopped by two bots a few years older than himself. They'd been watching him from across the street, half hidden in the shadows of laundry lines crisscrossing the alley in a thick canopy of multicolored fabric.

The larger one with bushy eyebrows glanced at Chopra's bike. "It's mine now," He said evenly.

"What are you talking about?" Asked Chopra.

"Your bike."

"You're not taking it," Said Chopra, lifting his voice and seeing his father smiling, _"Take good care of it. Don't let anyone borrow it." _

The boy shifted up to Chopra and stared down at him.

He was a full head taller, his eyes narrowing. "What are you going to do anyway?"

Chopra took a deep breath. His mouth went dry. "You can't have my bike."

"I'm doing you a favor. You're just making the old man rich. You can't work for him anymore. Do something else."

"You know I can't."

"Then you'll never be anything in this world, so it doesn't matter if I take the bike or not." He started away from Chopra and grabbed the bike's handlebars.

His friend came up behind him. "Can you double me?"

"Sure," Said the boy. "Climb on."

The second boy balanced himself on the rear wheels bolts while the first boy took a seat.

"You can't take it!" Shouted Chopra, reaching toward them.

The first boy turned and shoved Chopra away. "Don't do anything. I don't want to hurt you."

Chopra reared back, ready to punch the boy in the face, but suddenly he was on the ground, the dust coming up into his face. The other kid had come down and shoved him.

With tears in his eyes, Chopra watched as his bicycle vanished down the alley.

"Change of plans!" Said The Empress, riding up beside Chopra.

They were still pushing along the embankment, passing the rows of gridlocked cars, with Hussein keeping close behind them.

"Are you listening to me?" She asked.

Chopra glanced at her. She was riding through that old alley in Mumbai, and then the alley dematerialized into the narrow country road. "What did you say?"

"I told you we have a change of plans. We're not going to Dover anymore. We're heading to Folkestone. We'll be met there. It's farther south than Dover and closer to us. Now let's pick up the pace. Come on."

Chopra was sweating profusely in the summer heat and humidity. He took a deep breath, wondering what those boys had ever done with his bike. He'd never seen it again, and in truth he'd never forgiven himself for allowing them to steal it. His father would not have approved.

But he'd shown them, right? He'd risen from the dirt, the ashes, the same way Dubai would in time. He refused to let this women take that way, and he silently vowed that she wouldn't. No matter what he had to do. He glanced back at the young Sheikh, who rolled his eyes and said, "When can we stop? I'm absolutely dying of thirst!"

"You have become an expert in complaining."

"Shut up, old man."

"You must learn to respect your elders."

"Get me a drink- or at least get her to get me a drink..."

Chopra braced himself. _Patience. Patience._

* * *

Dib loved how politics affected military operations.

When he'd earlier needed Close Air Support, he couldn't get the time of day, but now, after parsons had some time to throw her weight around and negotiate her way up and down the pipeline with the Russians, who had seemed to just appear out of thin air in one of the largest air fleets and ground forces seen, maybe bigger than the Armada and the Irken Army. They had been breaking down the Irkens in Europe, Russia, and even off the planet. An Mi-35V XE10 Super Hind came whomping toward them, as menacing as a mutant wasp with the intent to kill. They'd be picked up and whisked at high speed back into the chase.

The Empress, Chopra, and Hussein were on bicycles and riding toward the coast.

Parsons had had to repeat that.

Bicycles? There was The Empress's connection to the Tour De France, the cousin who'd been murdered. But Bicycles?

Parsons had explained that all the roads had been flooded with people trying to flee to the coast and cross over to France. The Empress's escape was actually quite clever and much faster than any attempt by car.

A keen eyed intelligence analyst with his face glued to a satellite feed had, however, picked up the group of three pedaling southward.

Easy prey? Hardly.

Worse, getting back in the air wouldn't go by the numbers as Lakota confirmed. "Our ride's got an Irken on his tail. Looks like a Ripper."

All right, you talk in our ride, and I'll get us to put some fire on that Ripper," Dib said, still jogging through the forest.

He reached the road and the pair of trucks where the others had already climbed aboard and were waiting for him. He signaled both drivers: _Take us back up the road,_ to where a large clearing would serve as the landing zone.

They tore off, the engines revving, Dib's driver cursing under his breath, a habit it seemed. It took just five minutes to reach the zone, where Dib ordered his team to fan out, away from the trucks- all but Daugherty and Heston. He put those operators on the fifty caliber guns. Then he told the two British drivers and gunners that they didn't have to stay, that his men would take out that Ripper, and thank you very much for allowing us to borrow your nice toys.

"You think I can stand here and turn over my equipment to a Yank? Hell no!" Hollered Dib's driver. He ordered his gunners back to their weapons.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not giving you a choice."

"Bloody hell, I know that. So rest assured, we'll get the job done. You but your boys on the bird as well. We're in the fight now."

Dib snorted. "Not worried about drawing fire?"

"I think _they _should be," Said the driver, tipping his head toward the oncoming Irken craft. "Let's go hunting."

Finally, Dib smiled. "Thanks."

"Yeah, yeah, just get ready."

Dib jogged away as his people set up along a slight mound, all lying prone, weapons trained at the two dark blips appearing over the distant tree line. The team had packed relatively light, not expecting to face armor or aircraft, and Dib longed for a nice Zeus, a fire and forget missile launcher that would certainly give the Irkens pause- much more so than a pair of fifty caliber guns.

Dib dropped down beside Tristan, who'd been given a rifle by Lakota. His gaze was fixed through the scope.

"How you doing?" Dib asked, shifting awkwardly onto his elbows.

"Just fine. How are you?" Tristan snapped.

"Look, I'm sorry."

"No, you;re just a guy trying to save his half-ass career, and I'm just a guy who doesn't belong here. Never did. Never will."

"Parsons knows your brother's there. She'll send a recovery team."

"He always knew he'd die out here. I have a detailed list of instructions of what to do. He wrote them for me. This is no surprise."

"Like I said, I'm sorry."

Tristan's tone grew even nastier. "You know why I finally joined the NSA? Because my father came to me, told me he wanted to protect Jorge. He said Jorge took too many risks. I needed to watch out for him. And stupid me believed my father. What a crock. I found out later that Jorge told my father what to say- just to get me on board. But I keep thinking that maybe it wasn't lie. Maybe it was true. I was supposed to keep an eye on Jorge because I'm the sane one, not a warmonger. And I failed. I let my brother die."

"Survivor guilt is natural. I promise we'll talk about this later. I promise." Dib cleared his throat and opened up a channel to the team. "Ghostex Team, this is Ghostex Lead. Stand by. Here they come!"

The Super Hind swooped down to within a meter of the treetops, with the massive Ripper tailing. That the Irkens hadn't already blown the transport from the sky bothered Dib. They were holding fire. What the hell?

Maybe they wanted something- or someone- on board. They'd been given orders to track and observe.

Interesting...

"Hammer, this is Ghostex Lead. The Irkens aren't firing on our bird."

"Ghostex Lead, just take out that Ripper. Now!"

Dib glanced up at Lakota, waved her over. She rushed to his side and dropped down. He switched off the audio on his Cross-Com. "This is weird."

"I know."

"Talk to the Hind pilot. See if he's carrying any precious cargo or VIPs."

"Parsons will hear."

"I don't care. Just do it."

Lakota called the pilot, who spoke in a thick accent and broken English, saying he wasn't at liberty to discuss such issues. That was pilot code for _I've got precious cargo but I can't tell you. _

Otherwise he would have just said _Nyet_ ('No' in Russian.)

"All right, let's get that bird on the ground, then we'll find out what the hell's going on here," Dib said.

The Super Hind drew closer, then, under Lakota's guidance and on her count, suddenly banked hard to the left, facing the Ripper and opening a window for the fifty cals.

"All right, fire, fire, fire!" Dib shouted.

The two Brits manning the fifties cut loose with a massive barrage, every third round a tracer that shimmered like laser bolts across green crowns of trees. The co-pilot in the Super Hind brought the 40mm autocannon around, took aim and let it open up, unleashing a vicious salvo of rounds that punched deep into the Rippers fuselage. It seemed now that three fire lit wires were attached to the massive Ripper as it climbed and rolled against the onslaught. The wires fluctuated and wanted to drag the Ripper down.

Below, both gunners adjusted fire until their round were drumming along the fuselage's thick armor plates. It was awe inspiring to see an aircraft take that many rounds from the fifties, Dib's people and an aircraft with as much punch as a Super Hind, which had started firing it's light anti armor cannon and maneuvering behind the Ripper.

The thing still remained aloft, seemingly undamaged as the side doors opened up, Irken door gunners bringing their triple barreled heavy plasma cannons to bear, suppressing some of Dib's men and sending the Super Hind banking hard and below the large aircraft to readjust fire.

"Damn, I don't think we can touch her," Shouted Lakota.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Cried one of the gunners, breaking off fire. "We've pissed him off now! He's coming around!" The man abandoned his gun, jumped off the truck, and began running.

As the Super Hind dove under the Ripper and continued away to put it's rocket pods to use, the Ripper started to move forward, coming to bear on one of the trucks. A single white hot flash came from a small ion cannon mounted to the bottom. Before Dib could open his mouth in an order to fall back, the first truck lifted off the ground and burst into a dome of fire whose heat and blast wave sent Dib sliding backward.

Smoke swirled in the propulsion wash and dropped on them like a woolen blanket as the din of gunfire rose. Dib coughed. His eyes burned. He could barely see the images piped in from the Cross-Com. And then the smoke thinned. The second gunner kept firing at the Ripper, a fountain of brass casings rising at his side. Dib screamed for the guy to get out of there, but he doubted the man had heard him. The Brit seemed unfazed by the massive Ripper coming around to finish him off.

The Super Hind had fired at least a dozen rockets from each of it's pods in the attempt to bring down that Ripper, but the rockets struck the armor plates, they crumbled off to expose the less armored section under the plates, and fired again, opening a large hole in the craft that billowed black smoke and pink flames. The door gunner of the Ripper opened up, sending the Super Hind banking again.

Dib hollered again for the gunner to get the hell out of there, but the ion cannon flashed again like a camera and a thin smoke trail slashed in the air between the Ripper and the truck, following a deadly orb of energy.

But that gunner never released his weapon and fired until the white hot explosion swallowed him.

(End Chapter)


	15. Chapter 14

"I could envy the dead, Plato once quoted only they have seen the end of war, only if it were true." - Unknown

* * *

Chapter Fourteen

**Clearing near Target Location**

**Sandhurst **

Knowing that Parsons was observing everything on the battlefield, Dib did not report the loss of his fifty caliber guns, or that the Russian bird was doing minimal damage to the flying tank about to finish his team.

Those facts were obvious.

As was the fact that he needed immediate air support with something with enough punch to take that Ripper out of the sky.

He and his Ghostex team were firing slingshots at an armored Goliath, and a break back for the woods would leave them vulnerable.

Only a few seconds after he'd called for help- his senses overloaded by the fires, secondary explosions, and deafening din of the Rippers propulsion systems and propulsion wash- did a new window open in his HUD to reveal a praying mantis or rather a fighter pilot wearing an alien-like helmet with attached oxygen line. A complex grid of flashing data displays reflected brilliantly across the pilot's tinted faceplate.

"Ghostex Lead, this is Siren, Strike Fighter Support, over."

"Gaz? Gaz! This is Ghostex Lead, our target is-"

"Relax, Lieutenant. I have your target. Tell your people to take cover, over."

"Roger that!" Somewhere amid all the racket came the faint hiss of a jet.

Dib hollered for incoming, and they all dug deeper into the mound. The Super Hind fired another salvo of rockets, ripping off more armor plates as the 40mm rounds peppered the Ripper, just before it dove under and got out of the way. Dib craned his neck up, studied the sky, and waited.

Finally, the whoosh of the F-35's Pratt & Whitney engine boomed louder than the Ripper's.

The F-35 was a Short Take Off and Vertical landing (STOVL) aircraft that had often provided Close Air Support to Dib's operations in the States. Pilots could keep their jets hidden in the buildings and launch vertically on a moment's notice. Some of his operators referred to the fighters as helicopters on steroids, and Din was well accustomed to working with their highly capable if sometimes immodest pilots.

Small world, too, because he knew this particular fighter jockey, she was one of the best, and his sister.

Lieutenant Colonel Gaz "Siren" Membrane had fought bravely during the Irken invasion of Canada to earn the attention of the President of the United States, along with the admiration of everyone in the Air Force. She'd been shot down, nearly captured behind enemy lines, and rescued by a stalwart Force Recon Marine unit, who'd plucked her from the waters of a frozen lake whose ice had given way.

Word was in any skies that if you had Siren on your back, the enemy didn't stand a chance- and you stood a greater chance of coming home alive.

All of Dib's people had been trained as Air Force combat controllers, though Lakota at the most accomplished among them. At the moment, though, Siren didn't need any help. Dib watched from her point of view as she targeted the Ripper and unleashed the dogs: a pair of wingtip mounted AIM-9X Sidewinder missiles.

That the missiles used passive IR target acquisition system to home in on the Ripper's infrared emissions was a trivial detail.

That they would utterly destroy the enemy aircraft was all you needed to know.

And now it was time to stop, hold your breath, and look up at the fireworks show.

And that's exactly what Dib did.

The twin flashes came, burning magnesium bright, and from the jet's wings came fate in all its destructive glory.

Dib caught them for a split second as the Sidewinders entered the Ripper's fuselage where the Super Hind had opened a gap, the missiles truck their one two knock out punch. Flaming debris formed the petals of a brilliant flower before the Ripper shattered from the inside out, and all of it came crashing down just thirty meters away, the entire field trembling, secondary explosions resounding, debris pinwheeling in all directions like razor sharp throwing stars tossed by ninja warriors.

Dib waved his people away, lest they be sliced apart or caught in the flames. His Ghostex Team needed no more coaxing and sprinted for the trees.

"Ghostex Lead, this is Siren, is there anything else I can do for you today, over?"

"Yeah, you can come out for a nice pizza once and a while."

Although Gaz' face was hidden by her faceplate, Dib guessed that she smiled. "Always a pleasure, Ghostex Lead. Siren out."

The team, along with the surviving Brits, rallied back to the edge of the field where they'd entered as the Super Hind's gear came fanning out of it's fuselage, both troop compartment doors opening up, making ready to receive the Ghostex Team.

"You can ride with us if you want," Dib told the driver.

"My people are on the way. Thanks for that," The guy said, glancing at the burning Ripper.

Dib gestured toward the shattered trucks. "I'm sorry about your gunner."

The driver made a face. "Me, too. Glad you got us a little help, otherwise we would've joined him."

Dib nodded.

"All right, everyone, let's load," Shouted Lakota.

Dib shook hands with the driver, a sobering moment to be sure, and then he and the other climbed aboard the Super Hind. He was the last inside and searched the bay area for any surprising faces. Just the pilot, and co-pilot in their individual cockpits, and two door gunners positioned on their guns mounted outside the craft in between the pilot section and the bay doors, about as nondescript a bunch as you could get.

He wanted to express his puzzlement to Lakota, but the bay was much too loud to do any talking. They lifted off and forged onward, toward the coast.

No precious cargo? No VIPs? Why hadn't the Irkens fired on the Russians?

The answer came within seconds. Parsons appeared in his HUD. "Ghostex Lead, we've intercepted communications from Storr and his team. They had direct contact with that Ripper. They're trying to track us again, but we cut the line."

"I thought maybe we were carrying VIPs," Dib said, lifting his voice above the gunship's engines.

"Negative. Well, actually, from Storr's standpoint, _you _are the VIPs. He'll let you do all the work and show up at the last second to claim his prize. I've got a Russian gunship squadron keeping him busy right now, but those assets won't be mine for much longer. Brits are all tied up, too. I think our Irken buddy's going to slip away again, damn it."

"Roger that."

"But look at this," Said Parsons, her image switching to a streaming satellite video of a water based hovercraft racing across the channel. A text box indicated that the craft was bound for Folkestone Harbor, with an ETA of just six minutes. The image then zoomed in to show three people on bicycles heading down the narrow, shop lined Old High Street, en route to the linkup with that hovercraft.

"We have her now," Dib said, trying to control his pulse. "If she gets on that ship, that's it. Done deal. Much easier to isolate and control."

"I agree. I'm instructing your pilot to hold off. We want her to board, get out of the channel, and then I'm calling a laser strike on the hovercraft's engines. Once she's dead in the water, you move in."

"Sounds familiar and perfect. Only this time she's going to be on board. Standing by."

Dib glanced around at the rest of his team. "Get fast ropes ready! We're back in the hunt!"

"Roger that," Shouted Lakota, then she began issuing orders to the others.

So The Empress wasn't so clever after all. She'd had her fun back in the Seychelles, but now she'd run out of time and terrain. Dib could already feel the zipper cuffs tightening around her wrists. He moved in front of her, got in her face, and said, _"You're not an easy Irken to find." _

And she would just glower at him with those lifeless eyes, resigned to her capture.

Oh, were it that easy.

Taking a deep breath, Dib continued to watch the satellite feed. The three cyclists neared the end of the road and disappeared into the alcove of a restaurant identified by the Cross-Com's AI as "Fat Sam's."

"What? They're stopping for an early lunch?" Dib asked Parsons.

"Probably holding back until the hovercraft gets through the harbor."

"She's obviously in contact with someone. Can you intercept?" He asked.

"We've been trying. New form of encryption. Hard to break. Cutting edge stuff, say the geeks back here. But they always say that, right?"

Just then the Super Hind pilot began to wheel around and reported in broken English tinged with an accent, "American, we enter in hold pattern."

Below lay the leathery brown stretches of sandy beach and the Folkestone pier jutting out like a slightly bent arm serving as the end of the railway line.

After another minute, the three cyclists appeared, heading along Harbour Street toward the hovercraft, just now entering the blasting seamlessly up the concrete harbor port lying near the railroad tracks. They were all holding to go cups and had probably stopped for a quick drink.

The cyclists rode a bit faster now, reached the port, set down their bikes, and raced up a small gangway set in place by two crew members.

Dib watched them like a hawk perched on a branch and studying a mouse who'd come up on his hind legs to sniff the air. The swoop and attack were already racing through his mind.

Lakota reported that the team was ready to drop on both ropes.

He nodded, then faced one of the door gunners as he hung out the open bay door. He tapped his Cross-Com, indicating that the Russian should open his intercom channel, Dib was surprised the Russian understood the gesture. He opened the gunship intercom channel by turning off the small unit that acted as a jammer to prevent enemies from tapping into their communications.

"Once she's disabled, there's a good chance we'll take some fire." Said Dib.

"No worry, American. When fire is upon me, I always like to return favor." The Russian gunner wiggled his brows under his glass visor as he slapped the big, triple barreled GAU-19/A with his palm.

Dib flashed him a thumbs up. "I like your style."

The hovercraft was a newly designed, high speed model with hybrid engines, according to Dib's HUD. With a crew of five and about a hundred passengers, it wasn't the largest ferry but arguably the swiftest, able to cross the channel in less than twenty minutes. A few decades prior, hovercraft travel had all but ceased and was only returning in the past few years with a new company, new technology, and a new influx of international business people trying to navigate around chaotic relationships strained by the war.

The craft powered up and slid backward off the hover port, turned tail, and headed swiftly out of the harbor.

"Hammer, this is Ghostex Lead, she's heading out."

"We'll give them ten minutes to move farther off shore. I've already got laser strike authorization and controllers on stand by."

"Roger that." Dib switched channels and asked the pilot about fuel.

The pilot snorted. "Fuel is the way of old, American. Chopper is fusion power."

The pilot circled, watching as they moved further away.

After several minutes, Parsons appeared: "Laser strike in five, four, three, two-"

Sparks arced high from the hovercraft's stern, and Dib knew the lasers had done their job. Smoke began billowing, and the broad wake behind the craft began to fade.

"Ghostex Lead, this is Hammer! Move in!"

"Roger that!" Dib waved his gloved hand in the air. "Ready the ropes!"

As the chopper pilot throttled up and took them out and over the English Channel, Dib flexed his fingers and mentally prepared for the descent. The ropes were specially braided, and their gloves were designed of a Kevlar-Nomex outer shell that quickly absorbed the high heat they generate while sliding down. Fast roping wasn't easy, wasn't safe, but it sure as hell was, ahem, _fast. _Grab the rope and slide. Three meter gaps between operators. And you'd better not get any second thoughts. You loved the adrenaline rush but loathed the idea of being the guy in the middle, with operators sliding above and below you.

The Super Hind banked around the still billowing smoke from the hovercraft's engine and descended.

Both door gunners swung their .50 caliber machine guns to bear on the hovercraft, and Dib leaned out the door of the Super Hind, the door gunner he had talked to flashed him a big thumbs up, smiling under his breathing mask.

"Make ready, Americans," Said the pilot. "Boarding mission commences." The pilot brought the chopper lower, slowing, pitching the nose up a bit until they glided not fifteen meters from the deck.

The gunners kept scanning the hovercraft with their big guns. Civilians who'd been outside on the deck began rushing back into the enclosed bay, while crew members were throwing up their hands, confused.

Dib listened in as the pilot spoke to the hovercraft's captain, telling him to "Make ready. American Special Forces team boarding your craft."

"Keep your eyes on all sides of this boat," Said Lakota. "She could slip off and try to make a swim for it if she has a paste suit."

"Is really a boat?" Asked the other door gunner. "I thought it-"

"Just watch it!" Lakota ordered.

The captain lodged his protests but was allowing them to board. Dib issued the orders.

Without hesitations, the ropes dropped and thumped on the bobbing deck.

"Go, go, go!" Hollered Dib.

And they did, rifles slung over their backs, gloved hands clutching those ropes, balanced between life and serious injury or even death.

Dib was the last one down, his people already moving forward, rifles rasied to begin clearing the deck.

The civilians were understandably shaken, but this was wartime and many were already settling in, realizing the boarding and search operations was a necessary evil. If they sat quietly and didn't intervene, they'd be fine, especially since they'd been told that "An American boarding party" had arrived.

As the others went below to continue the search. Dib ordered Pak and Noboru to circulate through the passengers with photographs of The Empress with her hologram of a human disguise. Within a minute, a few said they'd seen a women who looked like her heading back to one of the rear restrooms.

After hearing that report, Dib charged toward the stern, went down a narrow flight of stairs, and found the hatch to the restroom locked. He rapped, called. Nothing. He ordered Daugherty and Heston to join him, and Heston grabbed a small prying tool from his web gear and busted open the hatch.

_'What the hell?' _

"Lieutenant, did they do this?" Asked Heston.

"No, someone else," Said Daugherty.

A short, dark skinned man, a teenaged boy, and a women with spiked hair were piled into the small room. The boy had a gunshot wound to the chest. The man had been shot in the head. Heston moved in, reached down, and turned the women's head, revealing a bloody mess. As he did so, the short black wig slipped off, revealing blond hair pulled into a tight bun.

Decoys.

Dib took a step back and began screaming the word _No! _over and over.

He screamed so loud that even the chopper pilot could have heard him.

* * *

The Empress had to give Patti cred for her assistance and organizational skills. She'd set up the entire decoy run, right now having the decoys themselves murdered at the last minute so they couldn't be tortured into confessing. Now there was only one man on board the hovercraft who worked for the _Ganjin, _and he was just a simple, unassuming passenger, a potbellied, gray haired old codger more interested in the news flashing across his smartphone's display than in some boarding party search of his hovercraft.

For the moment, she, Chopra, and Hussein were being driven away from Fat Sam's by a taxi driver who'd been paid to take them up to Dover, their original destination. From there, Patti had arranged transport across the channel by private yacht, but that would not happen until nightfall. They would spend the day at the West Bank Guest House, south of Dover, where Patti had made all the arrangements, no questions asked.

Once they reached the house, the driver said he'd already been paid and left. They entered into a main foyer/reception area, where a heavyset women with shimmering white hair showed them to a room. Chopra and Hussein remained strangely silent, until she closed the door and faced them. "I want to thank you for your cooperation thus far. This could be much more difficult. You've made the right choice."

"I'm starving. When do we eat?" Demanded Hussein.

"Relax, you'll be fed," She shot back.

"We're not going to Geneva," Said Chopra. "We're not leaving this room."

She sighed deeply for effect and pointed at Hussein. "You've obviously been looking for him, and I've been looking for you. So now that we've all found each other, why can't we just live happily ever after?"

"I don't appreciate your sarcasm. This is a grave matter. But I guess you aren't much more than an evil," He couldn't even call her a person. "Creature." He finished.

"You think I'm evil? How do you know that?"

"I've seen it."

"The murders?"

Chopra shrugged. "Of course."

"They were obstacles. There were no evil intentions in my squeedly spooch when I killed them, only a job to do."

"And being that cold isn't evil?"

"There are those in the Empire who are much colder than I am. Trust me. Much colder. You don't know evil. If I had the time, I would show it to you."

Hussein took a deep breath and strode over to her. "You need us. So you won't kill us, so really, we're calling the shots. The gun doesn't really mean anything because you won't use it. You can't. I can open the window and start shouting."

"You could," She told him. "And you're right, I won't kill you. But I can make you feel pain." With that, she drew her silenced pistol and aimed it at the boy's leg. "Care to find out?"

"No, no, no," He said, backing away and bending over, as though he'd been struck by a softball in the groin.

"Okay, then do me a favor. Sit down at the desk. And Chopra, you sit down there, and you explain to this spoiled brat why he needs to lead his country. He wasn't listening the first time. Tell him again."

Chopra scowled. "Another sick game? You want us to entertain you?"

She shook her head. "What you're telling him is the truth, and I agree with it. I admire your ambition and loyalty to him and his family. There aren't many people like you in this universe, a universe controlled by greed and corruption. But his nation will recover. And he needs to lead it. He can help mankind rise up against the Irken Empire."

"You can't be serious," He said.

She holstered her pistol beneath her coat. "I am. Believe me. I am."

Just then, the room's phone rang, and they all looked at each other.

Holding her breath, The Empress answered, and her spooch sank as the man on the other end asked in a Russian accent. "Is this Jul Mik'hini?"

She slammed the receiver down and raced to the window. "Come on, we're leaving!" She shouted.

With the latch thrown, she shoved up the window and was about to climb out when gunfire pummeled the wall behind her, splintering the wooden shingles. She caught a glimpse of a man in combat gear standing beside an armored vehicle, holding up a phone with the display emitting a dull LED glow, he waved it before dropping it and aiming his automatic rifle. His black balaclava concealed his face, his eyes under a pair of dark goggles.

He'd intentionally wore a Russian Federation flag patch on his right shoulder armor plate to send her a message.

(End Chapter)


	16. Chapter 15

"In no other type of warfare does the advantage lie so heavily with the aggressor." - Tallest Red, Irken Empire Leader

* * *

Chapter Fifteen

**West Bank Guest House**

**South of Dover **

The Empress hit the floor and crawled across the room as Chopra wrenched open the door, placing himself between Hussein and the incoming fire.

She screamed for them to go, and she was just behind, bolting up to slam the door after herself but not before something thumped on the wood.

_Oh, no... _

She hollered again for them to move.

And just as she reached the staircase, the room exploded behind her in a brilliant blue light, the concussion knocking her down the stairs and crashing into Chopra and Hussein, who tumbled themselves as shouts and screams rose from below. Her pistol slipped from her holster as she tried to pull herself up from the tangled mess of the old man and the kid.

Before she could sit up, Hussein had her gun and pointed it at her. "Now you work for me. Just like him," The kid said, flicking his glance at Chopra, who was just sitting up and straightening his glasses.

A crash came from the other side of the house as it shook, and after a few loud footfalls, the man who had waved the glowing phone outside by the armored vehicle rushed into the doorway, turned and spotted them.

"Shoot him!" She cried as she reached for her second micro pistol tucked into an ankle holster. She had a third gun and a couple knives as well - a switchblade and a small, sheathed neck knife that hung from a piece of paracord.

Remarkably- perhaps even miraculously- the kid got off the first shot, striking the Russian soldier in the shoulder, striking the armor plate. The guy reeled back from the pain, cutting loose a salvo of blue energy plasma that went wide as he took the hit, and then another ripped across the ceiling, sending plaster tumbling onto their heads as the plasma left smoldering, black scars.

The Empress squinted through all the dust and finished him with two more shots- much to the kids surprise. She gave him a look: _You think I carry only one gun? _Then she bolted off the stairs and grabbed the Russian's energy rifle, searched his pouches, and found a set of keys.

"Shoot me or come along," She told Hussein. "Because this bastard's not working alone."

"They'll kill the Sheikh!" Cried Chopra. "We must protect him!"

"They're after me. You're excess baggage, and those guys don't travel light. So yeah- they'll kill the kid." She rushed to Hussein and thrust out her hand. "Give me back the gun."

"I think I'll just-"

The kid didn't get to finish. She ripped the pistol from his hand in one deft movement, and he'd screamed as she'd bent his trigger finger.

"Out. Now!"

They complied, and once clear of the stairwell, they charged out a back door, leaving the house staff lying on the floor behind sofas or beneath tables.

She told them to hold there, or outside, where she called Patti, who told her she was clear to go for the armored Russian vehicle.

Taking a long breath and holding it, she made her break, racing around the house, weaving between bushes, traversing a small stone path, then wrenching open a wrought iron gate to race across a brown stretch of grass toward where the soldier had parked the vehicle. She fervently believed he was not working alone and felt a pang of fear over trusting Patti, who no doubt was watching via hacked satellite transmissions.

As she crossed the grass, the plasma fire came in from across the street.

She dove onto her belly near an old oak, then elbowed her way behind it. Using the camera function on her cell phone, she kept tightly behind the trunk and slowly moved the camera out until she could see the street in the tiny screen: Two men had set up behind the row of parked cars. The shuffling of feet from behind her made her whirl around. Chopra and the kid joined her. "I told you to hold back there!"

"The house is on fire," Cried Chopra.

He wasn't kidding either. The stench had already grown unbearable, and the staff members were rushing into the yard, screaming and talking on phones. Sirens began to sound in the distance.

"You have the keys to that truck?" Asked Chopra. "Give them to me. I'll be ready to get us out of here."

"Sure, I'll trust you with those," She said. "Come on." She rose and fired some covering shots to drive the men down as she ran from the tree to the truck, just ten meters. One of the Russian soldiers wielding a plasma rifle returned fire, the discharge of the weapon booming as the blue plasma splashed and burned, just as The Empress threw herself behind the wheel of the armored vehicle, no doubt a GAZ-2975 Tigr.

Chopra and Hussein charged up and crouched behind her. The old man could barely catch his breath, and the kid wasn't faring much better. This was probably more exercise they'd had in a year. With a splash, pop, and hiss, both tired on the opposite side of the Tigr went flat in a near instant.

"There goes our ride," Said Hussein.

The Empress cursed, looked back at Chopra, and handed him the truck's keys.

"Thanks a lot," He spat.

Two Russian troops. No escape plan. And Patti's intel was obviously worthless.

She closed her eyes for just a moment. Took a deep breath. All right, she'd been in worse situations. Time to go on the offensive.

* * *

The Super Hind could not land on the hovercraft due to being called out to assist a small Russian ground unit, so Dib had no choice but to cut loose the pilot. The hovercraft was equipped with two small Zodiacs for emergencies, so he and the others would launch them and head back to Dover, where Parson's said she'd have them picked up.

"Wait, getting something else now," She told Dib, showing him a streaming video of a house near Dover that was now on fire. "Reports of an explosion and gunfire. Not sure if it's related."

"It has to be," Said Dib, waiting as his people prepared the Zodiacs for launch. "Can you get me some ground transport once we reach the harbor?"

"I'm on it. But don't get your hopes up, Dib. This could just be something else. Looters? Who knows..."

"They pulled a switch at the restaurant, so they didn't get very far, I'm telling you."

"I'll see if there's any other air support available. If we can get another chopper over there, we might have a shot."

* * *

Chopra flinched as another plasma bolt splashed into the trucks armored chassis and sparks flew somewhere above him. He crouched tightly near the rear wheel, keeping Hussein close to his side. He draped an arm around the boy, who threw the arm off, saying, "You're not my father. And that's creepy."

"Who are they?" Chopra asked The Empress, whose expression had formed a tight knot of intense thought. "Did you hear me?" He added, raising his voice.

"Stay here. Don't move," She said, then shifted around the truck, out of sight.

"We can make our break now," Said Hussein. "We'll run back to the house. Hear that? The fire department's coming."

"We're staying here," Said Chopra. "And if those guys out there are her enemies, they might be our friends."

"You know, you've got a point," Said Hussein.

"Finally, you're willing to listen to the old man."

Hussein snorted. "For now."

"Your father was a great man."

"That was random."

"You can be as great..."

A fresh spate of plasma and gunfire made Chopra lean out from behind the truck.

He gasped.

* * *

The Empress had darted across the street, drawing the fire of one man while the other ducked behind his truck. She made it all the way across without being struck, or at least it felt so, and then she dropped onto her belly and glanced ahead, where she spotted a pair of legs.

She propped up the rifle, held her breath and fired a three round burst, striking the man in the ankle. He cried out, went down, and that's when she rushed up, around the truck, and ran straight at him.

He looked at her and began to bring around his rifle, only the eyes showing beneath his black balaclava.

Her rounds drummed evenly across his chest, forming a perforated slash mark, and he flailed back like a leaf in the wind. She ran by, searching for the other guy, the kill as instantaneous and robotic as that.

She was taking a hell of a risk, all right, betting that the kid and the old man would be too scared to take off. Her attention was now divided between the car across the street and the row in front of her.

Then she saw it, movement just ahead. The tiniest portion of a black helmet showed above the trunk of an old Mercedes. She threw herself beside the nearest car, rifle at the ready.

"Hey, fool," She shouted in Russian. "Tell your government to stop wasting my time."

"You've already told them," The Russian replied. He'd chosen to speak English but his accent was thick and familiar.

"Sure, whatever. It doesn't matter. But let me ask you- how'd you find me?"

"You're sloppy. Just very sloppy."

She gritted her teeth. "Tak's helping you, Kiril. Isn't she?"

"We don't need the assistance of the Irken Empire when we're the ones dismantling them. Do you want to talk now, or embrace in death?"

"That's dramatic. Unfortunately your death won't be. It's all very routine."

"I'm glad you remember me..." Surprisingly, he shifted out from behind the truck, plasma rifle pointed skyward. He wrenched off the helmet along with his balaclava that concealed his face. "I want to make a deal with you," He said. "You know I'm serious, because you could kill me right now. WE don't have time to discuss details. But we need to talk."

"If you wanted to make a deal, why didn't you just drop by for some tea?"

"Can you blame me for trying to kill you? There's a bounty on your head. A huge one. I thought you'd know this by now."

"You're right. We don't have time for this." She rose and started toward him, lifting her rifle.

He brought his rifle down and aimed at her. She should've shot him, but his offer sounded strangely intriguing, so here they were now, in a standoff.

"I guess we both die," He said.

"Yeah, but you die first, and I always get the last word."

The Empress's cell phone began to ring. She cursed.

"That wouldn't be Patti calling, would it?"

She froze.

In shock.

If you know about the _Ganjin, _then you were in the _Ganjin_ - or you didn't live long.

"Who're you working for?" She demanded."

"Former Spestsnaz Elite. GRU Vympel now."

"I don't believe it."

If Kiril was working for the GRU (_Glavnoye Razvedyvatel'noye Upravleniye/ Main Intelligence Directorate)_ and if they had solid intel on the _Ganjin_, then this could present a serious problem for The Empress.

"There are those who don't appreciate your service and would rather terminate your employment."

"What the hell does that mean?" She asked. "You're just playing a little game. And I'm not biting."

The fire trucks sirens resounded loudly as they turned the corner and barreled down the road.

She tossed a look at them, then summarily shot Kiril. He staggered back and fell to the ground. She bent over him.

"You could have been part of something greater," He gasped. "We could have helped you..."

With a chill, she rose, ran across the street, and screamed for the old man and the kid to get into the other, undamaged Tigr. She jumped into the drivers seat and fired up the powerful diesel, turbocharged engine, and they tore away from the curb.

In all her years of covert intelligence work and trade craft, she had never made a more sloppy or pathetic escape. Maybe they were all correct. She had lost her edge. Or maybe there were just too many forces working against her this time: The Americans, the Brits, the terrorists, the Irken's, the Russians, and now... What the hell had Kiril been talking about? Were there enemies within the _Ganjin _that wanted her killed?

If they managed to get the hell out of the U.K., then she and Patti were going to have a very long talk. She glanced quickly at her phone; indeed, Patti had been trying to contact her.

* * *

Dib's team arrived at the docks near Dover. Parsons confirmed that The Empress, along with Chopra and Hussein had been at the West Bank Guest House, now ravaged by flames. They'd left heading northeast up Folkestone Road, but they had lost sight of them at Dover Towne Centre, where a massive traffic jam blocked all roads.

Dib and his Ghostex Team jogged the short distance to that business center, broke off in pairs, fanned out, and conducted an exhaustive search of a three block radius. They found The Empress's abandoned vehicle, two wheels shots up, a Russian Tigr in the same condition,both parked along a dense greenbelt near Priory Hill. She'd obviously broken out of the traffic jam and driven right through the woods, judging from the extensive damage to the extensive damage to the vehicle, the tracks, and the gaping lines in the pavement from the rims.

Parsons tried to enlist the aid of the local authorities, but the request had been denied because they had their hands full with the massive crowds at the docks. All Dib and his team had to do now was find the three people amid near rioting crowds flooding toward the coastline. Dib stationed Riggs and Schleck up on two of the highest buildings, where they'd maintain surveillance on the docks via Schlecks drone.

Phoenix Tristan, still bleary eyed and distraught over the loss of his brother, volunteered to coordinate with Third Echelon and was communicating directly with them to gain more intel. They spent the remainder of the day searching in vain, and as night fell, Dib stood near a roundabout opposite of the harbor. "Hammer, you got anything? Anything at all?"

"Negative, Ghostex Lead. Negative..."

He checked in with Tristan. The NSA had nothing either.

"She'll turn up again," Said Lakota, drawing up to Dib's side. "She might lay low here for a day or two, but I'll bet she'll cross to Europe. They'll keep eyes in the sky focused on this route, and they'll pick her up."

Dib sighed. "They'll disguise themselves and slip out in the middle of the night. And we can't stay here forever."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that... At least for me... This is the end of the line. Before the night's over, Parsons will call me back with orders to pull out."

"We can't give up."

"They want results. And we didn't provide them. They'll bring in fresh meat to get the job done. But hey, I had a good run. Ghostex is number one, that's for sure. At least I had a chance to play with you guys..."

Lakota shook her head. "I won't let that happen. All right, you were a little too hardcore by taking us back to Robin Sage, but you've been an excellent Lieutenant, sir. I would serve with you anytime, anywhere."

"Thanks." He smiled wanly. "But I'm done here."

She frowned. "You shouldn't be taking this so well."

"I'm not. It's all an act. After you leave, I'll curse. I'll break something. I'll get an ulcer, and my eyes will explode from my head."

"Now that I can believe. But please, sir, if she pulls us off, you have to argue. You have to fight."

"Trust me, I will, but I've been around long enough to know how these things go. The unit on the ground takes responsibility for the loss."

"That's not always true. We're as good as the intel they provide. If they keep putting us two steps behind and can't provide the assets, how can they hold us accountable?"

"Parsons went out on a limb for me. I owed her results. Simple as that."

"Let me talk to her."

"Forget it." Dib extended his hand. "It's been an honor and a pleasure."

"No, I won't take your hand. I won't. It's not over."

Dib shrugged, lowered his hand, and stared across the harbor, where crowded ferries and dozens of private craft thrummed toward the French coastline.

Away from the new war erupting on the Eastern hemisphere of the globe.

(End Chapter)


	17. Chapter 16

"Am I stuck here until I see the error of my ways? Until I repent? Well you're going to have to wait a long time, because I don't regret a damned thing." - Chieftain Major General Zim

* * *

Chapter Sixteen

**Geneva **

**Forty Eight Hours Later **

After abandoning their armored vehicle in the park, The Empress, Chopra, and Hussein had fled to the equipment storage room of a nearby tennis club. They'd hidden there until nightfall, at which time they were met by their old taxi driver, who brought changes of clothing and took them to the docks to link up with a yacht bound for Calais.

Patti had arranged it all.

Though the crowds had somewhat thinned, there were still enough evacuees to create a wonderful diversion. Getting lost among them was not difficult, and the ball caps and coats certainly helped. She knew that dozens of electronic eyes were focused on them, so they'd kept to the crowds. Moreover, they weren't the only ones boarding the yacht. A group of about fifteen others did so as well. The _Ganjin_, it seemed, had a much larger network and sphere of influence than even The Empress had imagined. And that unnerved her.

The rest of the full day road trip from Calais to Geneva unfolded uneventfully, though she imagined that Chopra and Hussein were plotting an escape. They occasionally glanced at each other, and when it became a little too obvious, The Empress addressed their unspoken communication outright: "If you run, I shoot you in the legs. Believe me- most gunshot wounds hurt. It's not like TV or the movies. It's serious pain. And I'll still drag you to Dubai. It's not worth it."

"Don't you ever sleep?" Hussein had asked her.

"My record is fifty years without it."

When they were just an hour away from Geneva, The Empress had called Patti and once again had asked what was going on with Kiril- and how did he know about the _Ganjin_? Patti said it was "complicated"and she wasn't prepared to discuss the matter at the present time.

Because of her reticence, The Empress decided to drop off the grid for a while. There were a few people she could call to follow up on Kiril's actions, but Patti would, of course, be privy to those conversations.

When they arrived in Geneva, she spoke with the owner of a coffee chop where a friend, defector and former Invader Yik AKA Heidi Le'tens, stopped every morning. Heidi lived in apartment near the Rhone River and had become a professor at the University IFM Geneva, an international business school where she taught economics. Her husband, another defector, Ald AKA Jerome Le'tens, had also been a professor and operative working in the IMID for more than ten years. He'd been killed in a terrorist attack in Paris while on an assignment for the IMID that The Empress had planned.

That was a year before the second war broke out, and because The Empress had worked closely with the man, she felt responsible to help his widow, despite the IMID's insistence that she not make contact. Consequently, The Empress was vague regarding the details of Ald's death and only identified herself as one of Ald's research assistants. She's threatened him: It was the _humanitarian _thing to do, a word, she'd said, the Irken Government had never understood. If they didn't allow her to help, a security breach unlike any they had ever experienced would occur. Tak had snickered, "Your soft spooch will get you killed."

During the past few years, The Empress had kept in touch with Heidi and had even visited to have lunch with her several times. They'd had a lot in common and had e-mailed each other a few times per month. Heidi was like the sister The Empress had never had and truly the only "real" female friend she ever had. The trouble was, The Empress had never been honest with Heidi, but that was part of The Empress's protection, her armor, and she's always known that having a friend in Geneva who was in her debt would prove invaluable.

At The Empress's request, the coffee shop owner contacted Heidi, who came to the shop and went into a back room, where a table had been set up for them. The Empress had, of course, paid the shop owner handsomely for this small luxury.

Heidi wore her hologram disguise, like any other Irken defector, they wore it to make them seem friendlier and more familiar than an Irken soldier. She wore her hair a bit shorter than The Empress had remembered, and her new "academic" plastic framed glasses reminded The Empress of the woman's devotion to scholarship.

They spoke in English, as was Heidi's wont. She was more than a little surprised. "Jul, I didn't know you were in Geneva! It's so good to see you! But why are you back here? Why all the secrecy?"

Chopra and Hussein were seated nearby and watching, and their uneasy expressions caught Heidi's attention. "Are they your friends?" Asked Heidi.

"No, we are not," Said Chopra.

The Empress looked fire in the old man's direction. "Please..."

"Jul, what's going on?"

"I'm wondering if we can stay with you for the night."

"We? You mean them as well?"

"Yes, I'll explain everything, and I'll take care of your rent for the rest of the year."

Heidi shifted in her seat. "This is, uhm, quite strange. You drop in unannounced with these people. Can't you get a hotel?"

"No, I can't right now. It's complicated. I just need you to trust me. And we need to talk."

"You know I don't have much room."

"We'll sleep on the floor. I just need this right now, and I can explain everything once we're up there."

"I was about to have dinner. I don't have enough food for us all."

The Empress grinned. "Don't worry about that. I'll take care of everything."

"Jul, what's wrong? What's going on? You're scaring me."

The Empress reached across the table and clutched both of Heidi's hands. "You can trust me."

* * *

Dib had bought himself a little condo just thirty minutes away from Fort Bragg. In fact, the place was almost paid off, and the resale value wasn't bad, despite the ever fluctuating market. Most folks who lined in his complex were Military, and demand for such housing remained high. A condo was the way to go for a single Military man: no lawn to worry about mowing, no building maintenance to perform, but the HOA fees would eventually bankrupt him, he knew.

He was on his way home after heading down to central Florida to see Jorge Volker's parents. They lived in a small retirement home in The Villages, and it was with great sorrow and resignation that he expressed his condolences in person. The NSA had already sent representatives to notify them of Jorge's death, but Tristan had beaten even them to the punch. He'd called his parents while en route back to the States, and as expected, neither Hank nor Coral had taken the news very well.

Tristan had not been present during Dib's visit. Coral had said he'd gone off to his time share on Captiva Island. The Volkers were exceedingly proud of their two boys and made a point of telling Dib about the great influence Jorge had been on Tristan. They feared that without Jorge's continued guidance, Tristan might slip back into a depression and into his "old ways." He'd already been talking about quitting the NSA job and memory wipe when he'd come home. Coral had taken Dib's hand and had begged him to talk to Tristan. Dib said that he would.

But for now, he needed to get back home for a meeting with Lieutenant Colonel Derick Oliver, DCO, 1st Bn, 5th Special Forces Group, a long title for a man short on patience. Oliver was a lean, athletic man with short blonde hair who seemed demure before he smiled and ate you for breakfast. He headed up Ghostex: Delta 6 and had not endorsed Parson's selection of Dib to lead The Empress mission. He would remind him of that, and the meeting would, of course, determine his future in the Military, if there was one at all.

As he'd suspected, the team had been pulled off the hunt and sent back home, and were about to be reassigned. Lakota's eyes had burned when she resignedly had taken his hand at the airport.

Dib did something stupid and said that now that they weren't working together, he'd like to take her out and buy her a beer.

"You mean a date?" She'd asked.

"I don't know what I mean."

"Well, when you figure that out, give me a call." She'd given him a curt nod and walked away.

Oh, yes, he was quite the operator when it came to the ladies...

It was late afternoon when he got back home and he was too tired to cook, so he drove down to the Liberator for a burger and a drink or two. He sat alone in his usual booth, and Schoolie, the big boy with the scarred face, drifted over and slid into the seat opposite of him. "Back from Europe."

Dib made a face. "I know why you're here, and I'm not talking."

"You don't have to. I got some scuttlebutt."

"We're friends now? Sharing secrets? I thought you wanted to bust my chops."

"Well, that, too."

"Then why are you talking like my buddy?"

"I'm still your buddy, Dib. But when I offered my hand before the mission, you should've taken it. You jinxed yourself."

"Okay, whatever."

"Look, let me tell you what's going on..." Schoolie leaned in closer and scratched his stubby jowls.

Dib rubbed his eyes, leaned back, and sighed deeply.

Schoolie's tone grew emphatic. "Word is they've just assigned a new team to your old operation."

"Yeah, so?"

"I'm on the new team. We just got briefed. You didn't hear this from me- but they found her again. The Empress."

Dib nodded. "We knew she'd turn up."

Schoolie winced, took a deep breath, and said, "This isn't the kind of stuff we should be doing."

"It's a different war now."

He snorted. "Yeah, I don't like it."

"So why're you telling me this?"

"Because I know you, Dib. You won't take this lying down."

Dib accepted his beer from the waitress and, after a long pull, said, "Maybe I will."

"Why don't you talk to Parsons? I'll drive you down to the comm center."

"I need a chauffeur?"

"You parked on the grass again, and they just towed your car. You didn't learn your lesson from the last ten times?" Schoolie tipped his head toward the front windows, where a tow truck was just leaving with Dib's car hanging from the back.

Dib burst up from the table, cursed, and started toward the door.

"Get it later," Said Schoolie. "Come on, I'll take you for that call. See if you can have a little video chat. Do it now before your meeting with Oliver."

"Yeah, I cam back here to call down to Florida, where I just was..." He said wearily. "Maybe I should have dropped in on Parsons while I was there."

"Maybe. Have a seat, finish your beer and your dinner. Then we'll go."

Dib complied, and Schoolie tried to probe him for what had happened on the mission. Dib gave him the look that said even asking was breaking the law. That Schoolie had mentioned his own assignment was certainly a violation, not one Dib would ever report, but a violation nonetheless.

"Why are you trying to help me?" Dib said, after taking his last sip of beer.

Schoolie averted his gaze. "This is going to sound stupid."

"I figured."

"Seriously, I've served under a lot of people. I'd be honored to work with you. I'd like to see Cole out and you in. I'd like to see that happen."

Captain Jay Cole was a few years older than Dib and regarded as one of the top three team leaders in the entire organization. Unfortunately, his skill was equaled by his arrogance.

Dib grinned broadly. "So you'd rather work for a junkyard dog than a greyhound, is that what you're saying?"

"Jay's an ass. We both know it. Anyway, I thought I'd help you out."

"Okay. Thanks."

They left the Liberator and went to the comm center for a secure line. Dib made the call to Tampa, only to be told that Parsons was gone for the day and that if the matter wasn't urgent that he should try again at 0800. He cupped the receiver.

"I guess you'll have to wait till tomorrow," Said Schoolie.

Dib swore to himself. "The meeting's tomorrow. I need to talk to her now."

So he told them the matter was urgent, and they patched him through to Parsons home via an encrypted signal.

"She's going to be pissed," Said Schoolie.

"Frankly, fat boy, I don't give a damn."

"Lieutenant Dib?" Parsons began, tugging her robe more tightly around her shoulders. She had a quart of rocky road in her hand with a spoon jutting from it.

"Major, we need to talk."

"Look, Dib, there's no more discussion. If you take issue with what happened, you need to bring it up with the Colonel. I shouldn't have to remind a career officer about the chain of command."

"Colonel Oliver and I have different perceptions regarding my After Action Report."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I was removed from the mission before being allowed to finish it."

"I see you've had some time to think. And in your case, that's dangerous. Look, I'm sure they'll have a place for you. I've heard a lot of great thing about your skill as a trainer. You'd be excellent at the JFK School."

"Someday, yes. But not now."

Parsons glanced at her ice cream. "Is there anything else?"

"Don't give this to Cole. It's mine. Let me finish it. I was close. Very close."

"I'm sorry, Dib, but it's far too late for that. This call is over."

"How did you find her?"

"I'm tired, Lieutenant."

"I'm just asking."

She sighed. "General Zim gave us a list of contacts, and a name came up in Geneva. We had some eyes on that zone and spotted her. We'd tried to bait her, even had him leave messages. She either didn't get them or wasn't taking the bait. But the analysts picked her up right away. The NSA's already got people moving in."

She'll be long gone."

"We need to figure out where she's going."

Dib assumed his best poker face. "I know where she's going."

"Oh, really?"

"Ma'am, I need to finish what I started."

"Good night, Lieutenant."

She abruptly ended the call.

Dib turned back toward Schoolie, who was now engulfed by a fiery car crash, the flames rising up his body and burning him to a skeleton whose bones turned black.

Dib blinked.

"Damn..." Said Schoolie, glancing away. "Tomorrow you're busted out of Ghostex. Ah, it's not so bad."

Dib looked incredulously at him. "You think I'm going to let that happen?"

"What do you mean?"

Dib cocked a brow. "You _know_ what I mean."

"Aw, no, you're crazy."

Dib widened his eyes. "Am I?"

* * *

The Empress spotted the man on the rooftop of the building across the street, so she, Heidi, and the others ducked back into the coffee shop.

"What's going on now?" Cried Heidi. "I thought we were going to the market, then my apartment."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry about coming here," Said The Empress. "It was a mistake. I need a car right now."

"You know I don't own a car. I barely own my own house."

She looked to the coffee shop owner. "Him. Tell him I need to borrow his."

Heidi did so, and although The Empress couldn't hear what they were saying, the shop owner's expression was enough. The Empress crossed to the counter, waved the man into the back room, then drew her pistol, put it to his head. "Keys. Now."

He fished into his pockets. She took the keys, then motioned for Chopra and Hussein out the back door.

In the alley, they found the man's little Kia. She ordered Hussein into the trunk, told Chopra to lie across the backseat, and gave the keys to Heidi. "You need to drive."

Heidi was beginning to hyperventilate. The Empress always wondered how the naturally contempt Irken ever reached the rank of Invader. "Jul!" She cried.

"Stay with me, and I'm going to tell you what's going on. Okay? I need your help."

Heidi fought for breath, took the keys, and climbed into the car.

"we need someplace secure. Maybe at the University?" The Empress asked.

"Okay, okay."

As they pulled out, she called Patti. "Unexpected friends here. Are they yours?"

"Yes, they are," Said Patti. "And you should be thankful. The Americans and Russians sent operatives. Don't try to drop off the grid again, are we clear?"

"We are," She said through gritted teeth.

"Meet me tomorrow at eight A.M., Café Gavoroche. I'm sending you the map now."

"All right."

"Now there's no need to rush off just yet, if you'd like to spend some time with your friend."

"I'm afraid the evening's already been ruined..."

She hung up and told Heidi to turn the car around; they were going back to Heidi's apartment.

Hussein began pounding on the trunk partition. "I want out of here! Right now!"

Chopra sat up. "I assume our little clandestine exit has been cancelled?"

"Quiet," The Empress told him.

Heidi suddenly pulled over to the curb. "I need to know what's going on right now. I'm sure Hans back at the coffee shop has called the police."

"You're right. So maybe we're not going back to your place," Said The Empress. "You can check us into a hotel. That'll work now."

"I'm not doing anything."

"Heidi, I never told you this, but Ald was working for the American CIA. That's why he was killed. And the same men who killed him are trying to kill me."

"No, that's not true."

"Come with me, and I'll explain. I'll tell you everything. Just help us get a room."

"I don't even know who you are."

"I want to tell you. I really do. But it's important that you just do as I say. All right?"

"No, no, I won't do this, I can't, they'll take away my human citizenship," Cried Heidi. "I don't know if you're a criminal or a prostitute or who you are!" She reached for the door handle and opened the door, it flew open, but it wasn't Heidi who opened the door. Before Heidi could gasp, a rifle barrel was already aimed inside the vehicle, a masked man in black combat gear was on the other end of the rifle.

The Empress reached for her door handle, the safety glass beside her shattered into a million pieces, and before she could draw her pistol, a gloved hand was grasped around her throat in a death grip.

(End Chapter)


	18. Chapter 17

"If something's important enough to you, no matter how hard it may be, fight for it." - Unknown

* * *

Chapter Seventeen

**MacDill Air Force Base**

**U.S. Special Operations Command**

**Ghostex: Delta 6 Command HQ**

**Tampa, Florida **

Dib sat in the reception area outside General Jake Pennell's office. Pennell was the man, head of the entire US Special Forces. You couldn't go any further up the ladder. And you didn't get a meeting with a guy like that by just whining that you disagreed with a superiors decision.

You got a meet by showing... Audacity. A word much in the news during the past year or so.

So Dib had made the call and informed the General's staff that he wanted to strike a bargain.

The General had initially declined, but his curiosity won out when he learned that Oliver had denied Dib permission to go over his head, and Din retorted that he wasn't seeking permission; this was just a courtesy call advising him or his intentions.

Dozens of framed wartime photographs of General Pennell in action covered the walls, and as Dib studied them, he began to understand the enormity of what he was doing, the enormity of the man's position.

Who the hell was Dib to try cutting a deal for another chance? The mere act was going to incite every officer above him: most notably Oliver and Parsons.

Moreover, Pennell had been a Ghostex legend as General Mitchel had been, arguably the unit's greatest living officer. Many of the techniques, tactics, and procedures that Dib had learned had been developed by Pennell and Mitchel themselves during their own time in the JFK School. Dib wasn't even sure if he could speak intelligently let alone speak a persuasive argument once he faced the man in the flesh. At least it wasn't Mitchell, Mitchell would have torn him a new one and tossed him to the side, waiting for his next victim.

Even worse, Dib would have to try and make an argument on two hours of sleep. He'd spent most of the night arranging to get his butt back to Tampa, and as he checked his watch, he expected his cell phone to ring any- There it was, ringing. After a long sigh, he answered. "Lieutenant Dib Membrane, this is Colonel Oliver's office. It's oh eight ten, and we're wondering where you are."

Dib tossed his head back, closed his eyes, and saw himself standing before a general court martial. No, his punishment wouldn't be that severe, of course, but his imagination always took him straight to hell first.

"Lieutenant Dib? Are you there?"

"Ah, yes, I'm here, here as in I'm at MacDill AFB for a meeting with General Pennell."

"Uh, all right, I'll inform the Colonel."

"Thanks."

As Dib hung up, he pictured Oliver's face when he got the news. Heat waves would billow from his brow.

"Lieutenant?"

Dib rose and was escorted into the General's office by Pennells assistant.

The General had divided the room into two areas: a rather regal looking work zone with rich dark furniture, bookcases, and unit flags hung from the walls, the other area a high tech observation post with a cocoon of monitors displaying battlefield operations. The station was, in effect, a miniature version of the SOCOM's more elaborate command and control center. Pennell was seated at that station, wearing virtual reality gloves and manipulating holographic data bars that were projected by millions of micro lasers. His fingers flicked through the holograms left and right, and he made the O shape with index and thumb several times to close open windows.

He suddenly wrenched off the gloves and bolted from the sear as though it were on fire.

"All right, all right..." Pennell muttered, clearing his thoughts aloud.

The General sported an almost pure black crew cut that complemented his angular jaw. Dib guessed he spent as much time in the gym as he did that holo interface chair, and an unmistakable in his eye seemed infectious.

"Lieutenant Dib, you're a persistent man," Said the General, taking Dib's hand in his own and shaking it firmly. "That much I admire. The rest of your record looks inconsistent. You, son, have been on a roller coaster ride instead of a career ladder."

"I just take it as it comes, sir."

Pennell hardened his gaze. "So what the hell's the matter with you?"

"Sir?"

"Forgive my candor. Parsons tells me she pulled the plug on your mission. And Oliver doesn't want you on it. You've come here to ask for a second chance in the guise of some deal regarding an Irken Invader Strike group somewhere in the States that you want to hand over to me."

"Sir, I've had sources in there for years, and I'm finally calling in all my favors."

"At a rather convenient time."

"The Strike Group Commander, Sayya, has links to China, The Empire and other universal governments. There's a rumor that he's in with the Green Brigade, too. He's a piece we need to take off the board."

"And you're handing him to me in exchange for another chance to go after The Empress?"

"What would you do?"

"I wouldn't come in here and insult my boss's intelligence."

Dib glanced away and smiled. "Sir, in the grand scheme of things, I'm just a little guy. I know that. And at my level, this is the best I got. The deal might be insulting, but you'll have Commander First Rank Sayya and twenty five other high ranking Irken Invaders and Zealots in your possession."

"So Dib comes first, country second."

"I never wanted it to be this way. I hate the politics. I really do. But I'm asking for a lot, so I give something in return."

"So this has been your ace in the hole in case we screw you over, huh? Keep a little piece of the pie to yourself, and give it back when the time is right."

"No, sir. I wish I were that smart. When they pulled me off the mission, I started thing about my options. Then I made a few calls."

Pennell sighed deeply for effect. "You want me to make this deal and overstep my officers."

Dib opened his mouth- but the General spoke before he could" "And you want me to take your intelligence on good faith and place more Americans in harm's way. These aren't your run of the mill Imperial Troopers nor Invaders fresh off Devastis, these are highly trained veterans and Zealots, which I remind you are higher than the Irken Elite Guard."

Dib glanced toward the window. The General's tone had come as a challenge, and Dib knew if he backed down now, there would be no second chance. The General was probing, looking to see if he had any fight left in him. Well, he sure as hell did.

"Sir, can I ask you a question? Why'd you join the Military?"

Pennell grinned, as though over some private joke. "You know the answer to that as well as I- because they forced you to read my bio."

"I don't mean the facts, sir. I mean the _feeling._"

"To be in control, right? To feel some power. To put forth that power in a way that yields a tangible and desirable result. Hell, that sounds so academic. Maybe we all got into this because it makes us feel good. We want to do the right thing for our families and our country. The entire world even."

"That's not my story, sir. I got into this to try and be somebody I'm not. I did it out of guilt. I thought I could make things right. I learned a lot. And maybe I'm not the most qualified operator for this job, but you can bet I'm the most persistent. I'm disciplined, and I never forget what I want. Results."

Pennell crossed around the ornate desk and plopped down hard into the leather chair. He leaned back, pillowing his head in his hands. "The idea that you're withholding intelligence from us doesn't strike a nerve, Lieutenant. It makes me want to squeeze your neck until your face turns blue."

"With all due respect, sir, there's a difference between delaying my report and withholding it."

"Semantics. Your intentions are clear."

Dib knew he'd regret it, but he rasied his voice. "Sir, I just want to fight another day. That's it. You've been the fall guy yourself, so you know what I'm talking about. Once an operator, always an operator. We know how this pans out."

The intercom beeped, followed by a voice. "Sir, I have Colonel Oliver on vid channel three."

"Sir, don't take that call," Said Dib.

"Why not?"

"Because he'll tell you I'm incapable and insubordinate."

"And you're late for a meeting with him," Added the General. "So you're right, he doesn't have to tell me how insubordinate you are. I'm witnessing it first hand."

"I just want to fight."

Pennell told his assistant that he'd return the call. The faced Dib and sighed. "Why do I bet on you?"

"Sir, we lost a good man out there. I'd like to take his brother, my team, and one other Sergeant. You give me those people, and I'll get The Empress for you."

"You didn't answer my question. Why do I bet on you- when you've already failed? And don't tell me it's because I'll get Commander Sayya. I don't give a damn about him right now."

"We weren't allowed to finish what we started."

"So pulling the plug on you was premature?"

"Absolutely, sir."

"Even after repeated mission failures? Maybe we cut out losses with you. Why don't you just back off? Start training the new guys, be the voice of experience. Get back to Robin Sage. I did it for years and found it very rewarding."

"Because it can't end like this. I got into the Military for the wrong reasons. I need to finish for the right ones."

"So if I cut you loose, it's with the understanding that if we don't get results, you'll be moving onto something else."

"I accept that, sir."

"So you're highly motivated."

"I always have been, sir. I just need good intel. It's hard to catch up with someone when your intel keeps you two steps behind."

Pennell took another long breath, then scratched his abdomen, remind Dib of the unique scar he had there, a scar shaped like an Irken symbol. Dib had read all about the General's exploits in the tropical operated areas the Irkens so rarely engaged in. Pennell had been stabbed by a Special Operations Commando with his eight inch long steel talon and it seemed as though the General had developed an unconscious habit of scratching the old wound. Dib had a few scars himself, and yes, they sometimes itched and drove him mad.

"You're putting me in a difficult position," He finally said.

"Yes, sir."

The General thought a moment and grimaced. "They've already given the mission to Cole. He's one of the best operatives we've got."

"I'm sure he'll get over it, sir."

"He's highly motivated, too."

"Yes, sir. Ask him if he knows where Commander Sayya is..."

Pennell smirked, then got into Dib's face. "You're a real con artist, huh?"

"No, sir."

Pennell widened his eyes. "Tell you what. I'll put you back out there. I'll expect to have Commander Sayya, along with the Invader Strike Group in custody within twenty four hours."

"My intel is solid, sir."

The General actually swore under his breath. "They're going to question this decision, but here I am, God help me, giving you one more shot. Last one. All or nothing. Hail Mary pass. Do you read me?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you're right. Cole won't take the risks that you will. He's too worried about his next promotion. You strike me as the kind of guy who doesn't give a crap about that."

"Born in the mud, die in the mud, sir."

"You won't be getting credit for Commander Sayya's capture. Nothing."

"I don't care, sir."

Pennell smiled and rose. "Make no mistake, if she gets away, your field days are over. And I'll be the one handing your memory wipe personally."

"It'll probably happen someday either way, sir. Hopefully later and not sooner."

Pennell came across his desk. Dib wondered if he would extend his hand in a shake. He didn't. "You're dismissed."

Dib snapped to and saluted. "Thank you, sir. And sir, one last favor?"

Pennell returned the salute. "Are you kidding me, Lieutenant?"

"Major Parsons and Colonel Oliver-"

"I'll talk to them. But you sure as hell better prove me right."

"Or I'll die trying."

The General gave a curt nod. "Very well."

Dib practically ran outside to the parking lot and got immediately on the phone with Schoolie. "Saddle up, fat boy, but don't tell Cole yet."

"Holy... You did it?"

"I just need to call one more player."

* * *

The Mucky Duck was a neighborhood pub and restaurant located in the heart of Captiva Island. Its owners had adopted a bright green duck as a mascot/logo, and the place had become a tradition for vacationers since 1976.

Dib found Tristan Volker seated at one of the sun worn picnic tables located right on the beach. Volker enjoyed the shade of a large umbrella with a Corona bear logo and was nursing one of the same while staring across the Gulf of Mexico. In the far distance, the dorsal fins of passing dolphins rose above the waves, and a salty tang clung heavily in the air. It was easy to see why the man found this retreat to his liking.

With his own beer in hand, Dib arrived at the table and sat opposite of the NSA Phoenix, part of him wishing he could spend a few weeks on the island.

Tristan noticed him and frowned deeply. "Aw, dude, you drove all the way here? I told you on the phone I'm done."

"You have to look me in the eye and say that."

Volker turned, looked him in the eye. "I'm done."

"Okay," Said Dib, pretending to rise.

"And you're leaving now?"

"I've got my answer." Dib started away.

"So what makes you think you can catch her this time?"

"I feel pretty good about it."

He gave a little snort. "You sound like my brother."

Dib returned to the table and took a seat, "You think he'd want to see you lying on your ass, getting drink, not finishing the job?"

"He doesn't care anymore. Because he's dead."

"What're you, an atheist?"

"I am now."

"Well, I like to think he's watching us and trying to give me some words that'll bring you around."

Tristan's grin turned sarcastic. "Good luck with that."

"I talked to Grim. She gave me her blessing. She'd like to see you get back in the saddle, too."

"I'll bet she would. I'm money, and I'm being wasted right now. That's how they think."

"Hey, they spent a lot of money on you. Time to give them a return on their investment."

"They've already been paid- with my brothers life."

"All right, I won't argue with you. I know what you feel like. You don't have to heal, but you have to go on."

"Why?"

Dib pursed his lips. "To better remember him. To respect him and what he believed in."

"All that honor and duty crap. It's all lost on me. And why do you even care? You feeling guilty?"

"Oh, I'm an expert at that. I'm just looking at you and thinking this guy's in the same boat I was. And it's a little boat, taking on water, and there's a big shark, and we're both thinking we need a bigger boat."

Tristan almost smiled.

"Come on, it'll keep your mind off it."

Tristan thought a moment, and then his expression brightened. "I guess if I go with you, I might get killed. Then I wouldn't be lying around here, feeling sorry for myself."

Dib chuckled under his breath. "Exactly."

"Then why didn't you tell me that in the first place?" Tristan rose. "You're buying us some beers for the road."

"You got it."

"So, where does the wild goose chase take us next?"

"Dubai," Said Dib.

"That place is nuked out."

"It's not as bad as you think."

"Why there?"

"She's got the heir to the country and the chief money man. This ain't rocket science. Parsons tells me there are bank vaults intact."

"So she went after the kid and the bankers so she could rob the bank?"

"You know, sometimes we make life more complicated than it really is. Maybe it's always been a bank heist. And she just needed help."

"We get her and some of the people she's working for, and maybe we open up something a lot bigger."

"Exactly."

As Dib ordered more beers to go, Tristan asked, "So how did you get us back on the job?"

"I handed them Commander Sayya and his Strike Group."

"Are you kidding me? Third Echelon's been trying to nail him for years."

"I know."

"How?"

"Long story. I'll tell you on the plane."

Tristan was still aghast. "That's a story I want to hear."

"Not my proudest moment."

"What makes you say that?"

Dib paid the cashier and headed out, leaving Tristan's question to hang.

(End Chapter)


	19. Chapter 18

"Every weapon manufactured. Every tank produced. Every warship deployed. Every Irken casualty. It all comes down to one final sense, an act of defiance againt a tyrant who seeks to destroy us all for a vain cause." - Colonel D. Trotska

* * *

Chapter Eighteen

**Geneva **

**Three Hours Later **

The Empress was left with a gun shot wound to her shoulder and abdomen, Heidi lay a few meters down the sidewalk, unmoving. Heidi had tried to escape, but the Spetsnaz trooper who had ripped her door open gunned her down, when his partner yelled for him, The Empress reached inside her jacket, pumped the soldier holding her by the neck with her clip until he dropped to the ground. She seized his rifle, took aim and fired, just as the other trooper whirled around to faced her, going down as he took round to the neck, firing blindly, landing one round in her shoulder and the other in her abdomen.

After the soldier on Heidi's side had brutally gunned down her down without calling for her to halt, The Empress walked over and cradled the woman who was purportedly her friend in her arms, after a few moments she gently set Heidi's head down on the concrete and set her hand over her chest before running back to the car and ordering Chopra and Hussein out, they seized another car, then they drove about ten kilometers to the small town of Versoix, where they met two men who took the car and ushered them into yet another, and a driver took them to a small hotel, where they had already been checked in. The Empress said her friend had arranged it all.

Now Chopra sat in the hotel room, palming sweat from his forehead and rubbing his tried eyes. He still had Heidi's blood on his left shirt sleeve as he tried to revive her before The Empress threw him off of her and tried to revive her herself. He was listening to The Empress speak on the phone while Hussein sat in a chair, watching a movie on the television. Chopra had been reading the tourist literature, something about a festival going on all week, sponsored by Favarger, a famous manufacturer of Swiss chocolate.

Abruptly, The Empress marched into the room and said, "I need to ask some questions about the gold and the vault."

"How much longer to you think we'll cooperate?" Asked Chopra.

The Irken rolled her eyes. "I'll shoot you in the leg or the arm, and you'll come around."

"I won't I'm ready. Shoot me." He took a deep breath and waited for her to aim and pull the trigger.

Chopra tried to imagine himself a martyr for his cause, but all he saw was a frightened bot who'd allowed his bicycle to be stolen.

"What do you need to know?" Asked Hussein, muting the television.

"We're assuming the main vault is located in the old Multi Commodities Centre."

"Yeah, it's there," Said Hussein. "Almas Tower. There are a lot of other ones, too. It's easy to get confused."

"Exactly how much gold?"

"That I don't know. Chopra?"

Chopra spoke through his teeth. "Hussein, our country needs us. We cannot go along with this anymore."

"I'm ordering you. You work for me. You do what I say. I'm the Sheikh. Tell her."

Chopra took a deep breath.

The Empress drew her silenced pistol and jammed it into his bicep. "This will hurt."

"Chopra, you stupid old man, tell her!" Cried Hussein.

After a few more breaths, Chopra lowered his head in defeat. He was too weak, too fearful of the pain. He was a coward, and he cursed himself for that.

Her voice came through a hiss. "Tell me about the gold."

"Tell her!" Hussein cried again.

Chopra answered, but he would not face her. "There are between five hundred and seven hundred gold bars."

"How much do they weigh."

"A lot. Four hundred troy ounces each."

"In kilos?"

"About twelve each or twenty seven pounds each. Heavy. There's silver there as well. Each bar is worth nearly half a million U.S. dollars."

"So we obviously need trucks. Heavy moving equipment."

He glowered at her. "Obviously. And you'll need a lot of people to move the gold. People you're willing to keep alive and not throw away like garbage."

"Shut up. I told you I didn't shoot her."

"Why did you kill her? She seemed like a sweet woman. An Irken with actual quality. Innocent. And you just got her killed."

"I didn't kill her!"

"Well you sure as hell dragged her into this!"

The Empress took a moment to compose herself. "Tell me about the security system."

"Go on the web. I'm sure you can learn all you need to know..."

She jabbed the pistol deeper into his arm.

Chopra began."It's the usual. Very complex biometrics: iris patterns, fingerprints, facial readers, blood vessel authentication, and blood flow sensors, all combined with traditional password protection and token codes. The live fingerprint authentication alone includes four biological markers of pulse, blood pressure, body temperature, and the capillary patterns in the skin to verify fingerprints by analyzing ridges of the print as well as the depth of the valleys between the ridges."

"I've bypassed those systems."

"Not these. You can't make a photocopy of someone's thumb and use it. Or even a gel copy. These are quite literally the best in the world."

"Which is where you come in."

"Well, you should know the Al Maktoum family wouldn't simply rely on those measures alone. The Sheikh was an eccentric." Chopra smiled darkly.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you should expect the unexpected."

"No, I'll expect you to get us inside."

Even as he'd spoken, Chopra was already formulating a ruse, but he could not put forth the plan without the young Sheikh's help- and therein was his greatest challenge.

"He'll get us in," Said Hussein. "And I'll get you the data on the oil reserves, but only if you get me something to eat."

"So, you'll give away your nation's assets- all for one meal."

The boy shrugged. "Half the gold and one meal. I'm starving.

"I've already ordered," Said The Empress. "And new clothes will be here shortly. You'll both shower and change."

"What you're attempting is quite huge," Said Chopra. "And have you considered the radiation? Exposure has been limited to less than eight hours without full NBC suits."

"Who do you think I'm dealing with here?"

"I don't know. I ask. You never answer me. Why don't you tell me? Are you terrorists?"

She chuckled. "Hardly."

"Then what is your purpose?"

"Well, that's philosophical, isn't it?"

Chopra stiffened. "I don't want to talk to you anymore."

"Then you can listen," She said, taking a seat across from him. "When I was a little girl, my father told me and my brothers a story about an old Irken female who lived in our small town, and she was tired and old and couldn't afford to eat, so she would go into the market and steal some bread or something else, or Irkens would give her a handout. She got caught stealing some snacks one day, and the MP's hauled her off to prison. And my father never saw her again."

The Empress just sat there, staring through him, revealing the moment.

"Was she put to death?" Asked Chopra.

"I don't know. I don't think my father knew, but he never trusted the Empire after that. And he taught us to be afraid of them."

"Why does this bother you?"

"Because one day, I'll be that women, and they'll lock me away because I stole some snacks, and that will be my life."

"I'm here to change that young man, to make him recognize that he was not born to live an ordinary life. He will change. It's never too late."

The Empress just looked at him, as thought yearning to change herself.

* * *

Thirty six hours later, Dib, his team, Tristan Volker, and Schoolie rendezvoused with the RFS _Chesma _in the Gulf of Oman, fifty miles south of the strait. The small ship personnel transfer between their cruiser, USS _Gettysburg _CG-64, and the Ushakov Class Battle Cruiser / Heavy Fusion Powered Guided Missile Cruiser took place at 0300. All boarded the fusion powered airship and were issued thermoluminescent dosimeters worn on their belts. The units, about the size of a deck of cards, measured their total radiation dosage while onboard and were worn at all times. This was the first time Dib had taken a ride aboard one of the Russian Air Navy's finest, they were all new to it all, so the Russian officer guiding them was ribbing them over their naivete and the hundred questions they had to ask.

They were all given a course in life aboard the Battle Cruiser, and Dib had been escorted to the Captain's stateroom by the ship's XO.

A young looking man was seated at a foldout desk, working the touchpad of a small computer. The man, who couldn't be much older than Dib and had salt and pepper hair, he arose from his seat and proffered his hand. Dib took and it and gave it a firm shake. "Captain First Rank Aleksandrova Ikashanko," The man introduced himself in English, his voice tinged by an accent. Captain Ikashanko released his grip and gestured toward a chair. "Have a seat, Lieutenant."

"Thank you, sir."

"Our launch pods are good for nine, so you'll have to drop in two units. My Para Chiefs will provide the training for you and your unit. They'll also deliver all of your heavier gear, including your combat suits, with one of our other pods. You've seen one of our GDP's in action, I assume?"

Dib nodded. He had watched videos of Russian Para Deployments from such a ship while they had combated Irkens on their territory. The gear drop pod (GDP) was a torpedo shaped projectile that cut through the sky at one hundred miles and slammed nose first into the ground, just behind the pods, and they carried the gear that the Paras couldn't in their launch pods. Dib was thankful for the help. Anything they could do to decrease their infiltration time was welcome. Two separate launches with separate GDP's was going to slow them down already, and it was his intention to establish an effective web of observation posts in and around Dubai before The Empress arrived. It all sounded excellent in theory. It always did.

The launch drills were performed quickly, with each group standing in line, once they were given the go ahead from the Para Chiefs, they would rush into the launch pods, strap themselves and their gear in, just as the rear blast door slammed shut with a tremendous, hydraulic clang, the launch alarms blaring louder than you could yell four times over before an actual launch. Then the alarms would cease and the door would open again for them to restart. There was some concern over Tristan's ability to remain calm, but the Phoenix went through the motions quite admirably. Afterward, Dib congratulated the man and said his brother would have been proud. Tristan agreed.

Lakota brushed past Dib in the confined passageway outside his stateroom and asked if he'd ever had sex onboard a Russian Battle Cruiser.

He stood there, dumbfounded, speechless, shocked even...

And then just as quickly, she sang, "Kidding..." And started away.

"That's sexual harassment," He said.

She glanced back salaciously. "So?"

"I could write you up for that."

"Before or after?"

She rounded the corner, gone.

"Damn," He muttered. If insubordination didn't get him busted out of the Military, temptation like that would.

"Lieutenant?" Called the ship's XO in a Russian accent. "Our Comm Officer has Major Parsons and Colonel Borchinko for you. Updates on intelligence on your target. If you'll follow me..."

"Does it sound good?" Dib asked.

"There's a lot of reported activity at your infiltration points. And there's some Irken ship movement. We might have a shadow. You Americans bring a lot of baggage with you."

"Yeah. It is what it is."

* * *

The meeting with Patti was canceled, and that same morning a private jet belonging to the _Ganjin _flew The Empress, Hussein, and Chopra from Geneva to Fujairah, one of the seven oil rich emirates that made up the United Arab Emirates. Fujairah was located on the Gulf of Oman, about an hour's car ride directly east of Dubai. They were put up in the Hilton Fujairah Resort, where they were to remain until Patti called and was ready with the trucks and team that would head west.

Without notice, a knock came at the door. The Empress drew her weapon, fearing another team of Spetsnaz troops had followed her, she asked who it was. Room service. She checked the peephole.

Two men stood there: one wearing a hotel uniform and pushing a cart that carried food and bags of clothing. The other guy wore a long overcoat and had the dark but graying hair and pale skin of an Eastern European. She guessed he was about fifty.

She opened the door, keeping her weapon hidden behind her back, and allowed the cart pusher to enter.

The other man immediately said, "Jul, come with me."

"Oh, yeah?" She asked, raising her pistol to his forehead. "Maybe you should come with me."

He seemed unfazed by the pistol to his head. "I'm in the room next door. He'll cap an eye on Chopra and the boy."

"Who the hell are you?"

"A colleague of Patti's. Lower the weapon. Right now."

The Empress thought a second- he knew who she was, knew about Chopra, and knew Patti. She lowered the gun but remained tense and ready. "Answer my question."

"I will. Come on," He said.

She followed him to the next room, where inside, seated at the desk near the window, Patti smoked a cigarette and sipped a cup of tea. "Sit down, Jul. ANd please keep your mouth closed and listen."

"That would be wise," Added the other man.

"This is Igany Mohorovic," Patty began. "He's director of SinoRus Group oil exploration. They have a head quarters on Sakhalin Island. That's just north of Japan."

"And he's a member of the _Ganjin,_" Added The Empress.

"Of course."

Mohorovic looked at The Empress and put a finger across his lips.

Patti continued, "What I'm about to tell you, very few people in this world have heard. And if they learn that you know who they are, you will be a target."

The Empress smirked; tell her something she didn't know. Everyone already wanted her dead. Take a number.

"_Ganjin _as a concept was born many years ago, back in the 1970s, during the fall of the Communist regime. The movement was the precursor in China toward capitalistic individualism and enabled the beehive mentality of Chinese society to restructure into many hives. The concept also promoted Xu Liangyu and Isaac Eisenstein, two classmates at Harvard, to consider how the concept could be used to control the world's natural and socioeconomic resources."

The Empress yawned. "Kill me now before this human history lesson continues."

"Quiet," Snapped Patti. "You need to understand this."

"Why?"

"Because you're a part of it."

"I quit. You're here. You got the old man and the kid, who by the way is a spoiled punk who would sell his own mother to the devil let alone an entire nation for a meal. I'm done. You do the rest. I want to be paid right now."

"You'll do as we say- otherwise, you'll receive nothing."

The Empress rasied her pistol at Patti's head. "Payment. Now. Electronically as usual."

Ignoring the pistol, Patti forged on: "Liangyu and Eisenstein were joined by myself, Igany here, and Dominico DiNezzo, who's president of the Vatican Bank and the man who discovered the existence of Mr. Manoj Chopra. We called ourselves the Committee of Five, members of the _Ganjin_, a network that extends over the entire globe. We've influenced this war in ways you cannot imagine, and all for the of the People's Republic of China, a nation we once believed would win this war and become the universe's only remaining superpower."

"So I've been working for China."

"Indirectly, yes."

"What's wrong, then? I can hear it in your voice."

Mohorovic moved in beside Patti. "The committee has split. Patti and I do not agree with the _Ganjin's _new direction."

"They no longer support China?" Asked The Empress.

"They've linked with the Green Brigade Transnational. They've extended their own network into South America. They're being heavily influence by those factions, and many of our resources within China have turned their backs on us because they will not endorse those relationships. The Chinese had very careful and thoughtful plans to sieze control of the new Russian Federation, but these South American factions undermined those plans and tipped them off. So China belongs to Russia now."

"We're breaking off from the _Ganjin. _We plan to form a new international health organization. We're getting out of the business of war and into the business of peace. And Dubai's gold and oil reserves will help us fund our efforts."

"You already work for the World Health Organization."

She closed her eyes. "We are as corrupt and unmanageable as the _Ganjin _itself."

The Empress shrugged. "Look, this is all very admirable, but still I haven't been paid."

"We'll offer an additional advance on the services rendered," Said Mohorovic. "But what we're really offering, Jul, is something more- a seat as director of intelligence."

"You're going to screw over the _Ganjin_, and you're going to use me to do it. And you don't think they'll be mad about that?"

"No, I don't" Said Patti. "They won't live long enough to get upset."

The Empress laughed. "This is insane."

"Jul, this entire operation has been run entirely through me. They have no idea that you've located Chopra and are here. I've misdirected them from the beginning."

She turned away from both of them, feeling a chill run up her spine. "I can't trust you. Why did I think I could?"

"We assumed you'd feel this way, which is why we'd thought we'd make a peace offering."

"The money..."

"And him," Added Patti.

The Empress turned to face Patti. "Him?"

"Chieftain Major General Zim, an Irken who loves you more than anything in this universe. He's being held at MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa, Florida."

"I thought you said a peace offering- what are you going to do? Use him to blackmail me into this? Go ahead, kill him! I don't care! Do it!"

Mohorovic put a hand on her shoulder. "On the contrary, Jul. Within six hours, the General will be a free man."

"Impossible."

"We have a sleeper on the inside," Said Patti. "This individual has been a project for many years and is now a high ranking mole in the CIA. He's gotten clearance and Zim will have been looked over, deemed rehabilitated, and gain human citizenship. Zim will be at your side very soon."

(End Chapter)


	20. Chapter 19

"All the world is a stage, and all men and women are merely players; they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts." - II. vii

* * *

Chapter Nineteen

**RFS ****_Chesma _****FGN-805**

**Ushakov Class Battle Cruiser **

**Persian Gulf **

Dib and his team were just north of Abu Musa, part of a six island archipelago near the entrance to the Strait of Hormuz. Iran had once established a special weapons facility there, but it had been destroyed hours before the orbital bombardment.

Once in position, Dib thanked Captain Ikashanko and issued orders for his group to begin boarding the launch pods. The first group left the ship and assisted the Para Chiefs in their efforts to store the load out bags aboard the GDPs. Those bags included combat suits, ammunition, liquid fuel and batteries for the suits, and other communication and intelligence gathering equipment.

Dib, Lakota, and four others from the group, including Schoolie and Tristan, entered the second launch pod as it was put in place via hydraulic arms, they entered in their g-suits, like the ones pilots wore in their fighter jets, with their neck braces and survival kits attached to their chest rigs. The survival kits were there in the event of a mislanding. Once settled in, the door sealed, and the engines rumbled to life.

The Russian Ground Force Commander, Colonel Borchinko, had an update regarding the target zone had been brief, and The Empress had yet to be sighted within the heavily observed five kilometer perimeter. Parsons had once more confirmed that the Irken had been in Geneva, as evidenced by the dead operatives in her wake.

Much of Dubai's infrastructure was still intact following the bombardment, including the Burj Dubai or "Dubair Tower," once the tallest human made structure ever built at 2,684 feet before it was supplanted by the Russian "Tower of the Star," completed in 2019. The structure had stood at 3,783 feet before the Irkens decided to take it down by a hundred feet.

Yet another super skyscraper in the area, the Almas Tower, was of greater interest to Dib because it housed the country's main vault, a subterranean affair newly renovated in 2018 to include sophisticated biometric security measures. If The Empress was coming Dubai for the money, then the Multi Commodities Centre vault should be her main target.

Colonel Borchinko told Dib of the Prokofiev Delta team operating on the ground, and they too were aware of what lay beneath their feet, as the patrols were found in larger concentrations near the Jumeirah Lakes Tower area, particularly around Almas. How The Empress intended to bypass those forces remained to be seen. Dib and his people would have their work cut out for them, if they were to remain undetected- at least initially. The Prokofiev teams were operating as single cells, cutting themselves off from the main command infrastructure and maintaining radio silence, at least till they found something to report, even then, they'd drag you out of Dubai by the hair, kicking and screaming.

But Dib had a plan, if this was indeed Team 1, as Colonel Borchinko said it had been, he'd be in luck. He'd be able to talk to someone he had kept in touch with since they'd encountered one another on the Seychelles. If he could turn this lone wolf Special Forces unit into allies, then The Empress wouldn't stand a chance of escape.

But what if they were wrong about this Irken? What if she wasn't coming to Dubai? They would lay an elaborate trap for nothing, and Dib wouldn't just be out of Ghostex: Delta 6; he'd be regarded a fool and fall guy by his colleagues. Once again, his career was in the hands of the intel they'd received. Good, bad, ugly. And in the end, his fellow operators would remember only that the mission had failed, not the true reason why.

He reassured himself that this had to be The Empress's plan: The kid and the money man could get her into the vault, and that was her goal. What else could she possibly want with them? Both were connected to Dubai. There was no reason to believe the money had been removed- no records of such movement. The country had been sitting in a radioactive vacuum for years, and the intel indicated that prior attempts to gain access to the main vault by the leaders of the remaining emirates had failed.

During the ship ride, Dib had read up on "living keys" and other security techniques. It seemed clever and reasonable that Dubai's leaders would employ the most sophisticated measures available to them, but they hadn't anticipated losing so many of their "living keys" in one fell swoop.

Now The Empress had found some of those keys.

Worse, she wasn't operating alone, and whatever faction was behind her could be extremely powerful, perhaps backed by the Irkens, the Chinese, or maybe even a clandestine group within the CIA or the European Federation. For all Dib knew he could be an unwitting participant in the flushing out of a mole.

Dib strapped the breathing mask to his pilot style helmet as the launch alarms began to sound. The others lifted their thumbs. And after a muffled clunk, the alarms ceased, and the pods thruster ignited, launching the pod out from the ships hull and toward the ground at 120 kilometers per hour.

* * *

The landing had been a bit hard for Dib and his team, almost as comparable to when their Sphinx had been shot down in Europe. The pod had landed in the marina, where they had dismounted and started to follow the canals toward the city proper, where their GDP had hit it's mark. Lakota kept close to Dib as she closely monitored their radiation levels without NBC protection. Dib had already picked out several underground locations, subbasements and parking garages within the nearby Gold and Silver tower that he believed would afford them some protection between observation shifts.

Even with their suits, Dib was taking no chances by keeping anyone exposed for more than eight hors. He'd studied the blueprints of both buildings and would put Schleck on the roof of one, Riggs on the roof of the other. Those snipers would be rotated out with the rest of the team.

Ikashanko had warned Dib that Irken ships were trying to locate the _Chesma_, so he'd best have an alternate extraction plan in case they got caught in an air battle. As "on scene" Commander, Dib would make that call. The RFS _N__epovinoveniye _(Defiance), a much more futuristic looking Assault Transport ship with a trimaran hull, was also operating in the Gulf of Oman area and could be called if they needed her. Farther out was the RFS _Joseph V. Stalin _Carrier Strike Group.

Within thirty minutes they had walked along the canal and reached the Nuran Dubai Marina bridge. With the GDP in sight, they picked up the pace it a bit more. Local time was 0924. They unloaded the waterproof load out bags to the concrete from the GDP, and then, with all the gear unloaded, Dib punched in a confirmation code on the pod, sending a single ping to the _Chesma_, letting them know they had retrieved their gear and commenced operations.

"Better suit up now," Said Lakota, consulting her wrist mounted radiation detector.

Without a word, the group began the process, with Schoolie giving Tristan a hand because he'd practiced donning the Russian Kyzyl 9XV Exoskeleton combat suit a few times on the ship. The suit specs had been explained by one of the Para Chiefs aboard the ship, they were flexible and modular armor systems, offering NBC protection, yet still allowed a remarkable range of motion. Dib and the rest of the team had listened to the Para Chief spend more than an hour discussing the suits capabilities- including ballistic, plasma and blast protection. Integrated data gloves for hand gesture interface for units such as Cross-Coms, which was now part of a fully sealed combat helmet, which meant there was no earpiece or monocle required.

The suits also had climate systems and user specific operation modes with voice and facial recognition so enemies couldn't exploit them- but the bottom line, as Dib reminded his people,was that no amount of technological magic could replace the fervor of the human heart.

"Lieutenant, there's a problem," Said Lakota, over a private channel.

Dib winced. The volume on his communications system was much too high. He issued a verbal command to lower it, then responded, "What's up?"

"It's Schoolie." She said, gesturing across the way to the back of the group. Tristan, Schleck, and Pak had surrounded the man and were working on his helmet. "He can't get a good seal."

Dib cursed. "He really wanted to come along, too."

"Either he sits this out, or we keep him in the basement as security."

Dib shifted through the group and faced Schoolie. "How we doing, bro?"

Schoolie shook his head and bore his teeth. "Don't send me back. This is just my damn luck."

"We can keep you with the gear. You need to stay below ground to avoid full exposure."

"Dib, I've got an idea," Said Tristan. "After I set up my sticky cams, we let Schoolie run them. That frees me up to focus on communications intel."

"What do you think?" Dib asked Schoolie.

"Beats sitting on the bench," Said the big man.

Dib nodded to Tristan. "Let's do it." Then he whirled to regard the rest of the team. "Everyone else good to go?"

As they nodded, raised their thumbs, or shook their fists, a circle of avatars representing each team member appeared in Dib's HUD, with his own positioned in the center. All but one of the figure's showed green suits, fully online, fully functional. Schoolie's avatar showed a flashing red line at the helmet seal, as expected. Beside each avatar floated data bars that included vital signs, weapons carried, ammo, and the combatant's current GPS position, among other details.

With the flick of his gloved index finger, Dib minimized the report to the HUD's margin and returned to the "home" image of scanning the battlefield for potential threats.

They broke into four teams:

Dib, Daugherty, Noboru, and Tristan were Alpha team.

Lakota, Copeland, Heston, and Pak made up Bravo team.

The sniper team was always knows as Charlie and was staffed by Riggs and Schleck.

Delta team or the "base" team was actually a one man show. Schoolie would still have a chance to do his part.

Dib's team led the other up along the embankment. They wove their way between the marina buildings, wary of contacts and keeping tight to the walls.

The suit's 360 degree sensors and three dimensional audio queuing heightened Dib's situational awareness, and the results of seeing what was behind him and sensing the depths of sounds around him was so effective that he couldn't help but smile. The modern Russian war machine sure had given them some nice toys.

Within five minutes they reached the pedestrian footbridge spanning the Sheikh Zayed Road. The concrete walls afforded some cover, so they crouched down and hustled across. Working their way on foot toward the Gold and Silver Towers some 0.75 kilometers away was unavoidable, and doing so in broad daylight seemed surrealistic, but as Parsons had mentioned, the patrols had vanished like insects fleeing the light of day.

The team left the bridge and descended another concrete access way toward the Lake Terrace Tower, a forty floor office building standing in the shadow of the much more massive Almas Tower.

"We have solar powered surveillance cameras all over the place," Said Tristan. "Sensors picked up their motors first, but now I've locked onto their broadcasts."

"Roger that, me, too," Said Lakota.

"Hold up," Dib ordered. They strung out along a footwall beside the valet parking entrance to the Lake Terrace Tower. "Everybody sight a camera. The system will tell you if you're doubling up. I want eleven knocked out on my mark. Stand by..."

They raised their rifles, and Dib waited until the computer confirmed that each one of his people had sighted a different surveillance camera.

"Uh, Ghostex Lead, this is Remus," Called Tristan, using his call sign and reminding Dib of Jorge, who'd gone by the other Roman twin, Romulus. "I have an idea."

"Not right now. Stand by, everyone."

There were four more cameras in their path toward the Gold and Silver towers, but knocking them out this many in one fell swoop would speed up the infiltration.

"Locked on," Called Lakota.

Dib took a long breath, "In three, two, one. Fire!" Eleven supressed rounds sliced the air, and the flashing red dots superimposed over Dib's HUD all went gray, nearly in unison.

"Wow, that's one for the textbooks," Cried Lakota.

Dib gasped. "You're damned right it is."

"Uh, Ghostex Lead?" Called Tristan again. "I could have jammed those signals in ten seconds. They're using older tech, and it's not even encrypted."

"Don't ruin my moment," Dib said with a laugh. "But all right, then. Jam the rest. And keep them jammed."

"You got it, boss."

Dib rose. "Let's move out!"

As they bolted off, Dib told the computer to issue him verbal warnings regarding the proximity of enemies in the area. The computer began to issue those reports, and as expected, two armored vehicles were inbound: Tigrs, Prokofiev Delta, ETA five minutes or less. Those men had probably sought shelter underground.

"Hustle up people, they're coming to check on their camera problem..."

"Got em', too," Said Lakota.

* * *

Chopra had tried to persuade the young Sheikh to go along with his plan, but the boy had refused, and now it seemed inevitable that the country's assets would be surrendered to a murderous, overgrown green cricket (Ngrey)- unless Chopra was willing to sacrifice himself. It might come to that. Did he have the courage though? Would that be the ultimate repayment for being rescued from the slums? But if he stood up to her, and she shot him, the boy could only get her into the computers inside the vault, not the vault itself. He'd be useless. She'd kill him.

"Listen to me," He had whispered to Hussein while The Empress had been out of the room and they were being watched by a man posing as an employee. "I'll tell her that if your vital signs are broken inside the vault, the entire area is rigged to detonate."

"Is this true? Did my father tell you?"

"No, but telling her the vault might explode could be the only way to save your life- after you give her what she wants."

"I thought you didn't want me to do that."

"Now you might have to. I think if we go against her, she'll kill us both and walk away, without getting anything. I think that's in her nature, along with every other Irken."

"Why?"

"Because they're all sociopaths."

The bot snorted. "You mean a psycho?"

"I mean she no longer has a conscience. And she's working for others, so she might not care."

"Can I tell you something stupid?" The boy lowered his voice even more. "I feel horrible about what happened to everyone back home. But my life was so boring. And this is really exciting."

Chopra took a deep breath. "You understand this is real."

"Duh."

"You're not watching this on TV. You've seen people killed."

"Yes, I did."

"Then you _should _find this horrifying."

"I know." He thought a moment. "So you're right. We have to give her what she wants."

Chopra widened his eyes. "And then what? What reason would she have to keep us alive?"

"I don't know."

"Listen to me again. I'm telling her if she kills you, the vault will explode. And you'll go along with that."

"I don't think she wants me to die."

"Don't believe anything she says."

"If you lie to her, I'll tell her," Said Hussein.

"Why have you taken her side?"

"Because... I don't know. I think maybe she can help me."

"And I can't?"

"As a prisoner like me? No."

Chopra hardened his voice. "She's come to rob our country."

Hussein shook his head. "_My _country."

"And you'll let her get away with that?"

"I don't know.

"Once we get her inside, she'll keep us alive until she moves out all the gold and you give her the locations of the oil reserves. After we get out of the building, she'll kill us. So during her operation is when we must make our move. I know the vault very well. As well as the tunnels."

"If you run, I'm not sure I'll go with you," Said Hussein.

"Then you'll die... And your fathers dream will follow suit."

For a moment, Chopra had thought he'd seen tears form in the boy's eyes...

Now Chopra sat in the hotel, staring at the sleeping boy and listening to The Empress speak softly into her cell phone. He looked to the window, thought of throwing himself through the glass and plunging to the street below. It was a reckless thought brought on by self pity. He closed his eyes, and there, in the darkness, he saw the first three angels with the metal armor and long metal wings, they all looked to him, fanning out their metallic wings.

"She is afraid. And you need to exploit that," Said the largest one in the bulkiest armor.

"How?"

"You know how."

"No, I don't! Tell me!"

"She's only a little girl." The metal angel smiled and vanished with the rest of them, and Chopra opened his eyes to find the boy staring at him.

"You were talking," He said. "You woke me up."

* * *

Dib and his people reached the Gold Tower parking garage entrance exactly twenty one seconds before the Tigrs arrived. He, Lakota, and Tristan remained at the entrance to observe while the others fell back to defensive positions deeper within the facility. The vehicles were obviously military, and out hopped a pair of men from each. They wore the exact same suits as Dib and his team had been issued, but they weren't connected to the Russian's down by their vehicles.

Dib used the helmet's camera to zoom in as the men pointed up at the damaged cameras mounted to the buildings. They glanced around, aiming their weapons at the structures above their heads, suddenly suspicious, then fell back to their vehicles.

"We need to make contact with these guys," Dib told Lakota.

"Take us to your leader," She responded in a mock alien voice.

"Exactly."

"I'll work with Volker."

"All right." Dib made a circle motion with his fingers, brought up his roster, and tapped on the avatars of Schleck and Riggs. "Hey, guys. You're cleared to head up top. Riggs, you stay here, and Schleck, you head next door. Let me know if you have any problems getting up there."

"If the backup generators are down, it'll be a long walk up to the roof," Said the sniper.

"Just keep me posted."

Dib shifted to Tristan's avatar and tapped on it. "Mr. Volker, you'll be accompanied by Copeland and Daugherty. Get your sticky cams in place, then hand over command to Schoolie."

"I'm on it," Said the Phoenix.

"And then, while you're working on communications, I've got another job for you. You'll recon that entire vault. Alone. You're a spy. Do what spies do. Why? Because I don't trust blue prints. I trust you."

Tristan's tone grew more enthusiastic. "Nice. I won't let you down."

"No, you won't. All right, Bravo and Delta teams, down to level four. On your HUDs. You'll set up the tents. Couple million tons on concrete and glass should help us from glowing green."

"Ghostex Lead, this is Riggs. Backup generators are down over here. Going to be a long morning, and this ain't no stairway to heaven, over."

Dib patched into her camera and saw the endless flight of stairs hanging overhead, the ceiling lost in the distant shadows. "You're a true warrior."

"I know that." She groaned. "Could be worse. I could be wearing heals."

Dib chuckled to himself, and before he could issue another order or make another observation of their operational zone, a priority message flashed in his HUD, origin US High Command. The data box opened to show Colonel Oliver. Then another box opened, part of a conference communication, and suddenly Dib was staring at both his immediate superior officer and General Pennell, who spoke curtly.

"Lieutenant, listen carefully. There's been an unexpected security breach on our end- and we believe it may have a direct impact on your mission."

(End Chapter)


	21. Chapter 20

A CNN reporter, while interviewing a Marine Sniper, asked, "What do you feel when you shoot an Irken?"

The Marine shrugged and replied, "Recoil."

* * *

Chapter Twenty

**Fajairah**

**Gulf of Oman **

The Empress finished her phone conversation with Patti and plopped on the bed. "We'll be here for a while," She told Chopra and the boy.

"Why?"

"No more questions." She took a deep breath and wanted to close her eyes, but she couldn't. She stared at the pistol, lying a few inches from her hand.

They saw it, too, but they only sat there, watching.

"I guess I should say thank you." Her voice cracked as she spoke, a sign of weakness.

"For what?" Asked Chopra, furrowing his brow.

"You could have made this a lot more difficult."

He snorted. "We should have."

"Those people you work for," Began Hussein. "You'll give them all the money?"

"I said no more questions."

"You started the conversation," Said Hussein.

She grinned crookedly. "So I did."

"They get the gold, the oil reserves, everything?" Asked the boy.

"That's what they think."

"You have another plan?"

She took a deep breath. "I have lots of plans."

In fact, she had considered stealing the gold for herself, but once again engaging in an operation that complex and pulling it off at the last moment was improbable, to say the least. Then again, you never knew how the radioactive winds of fate could blow...

Patti had indicated that a Russian Spec Ops force was occupying the city. The Empress had told her that she had no plans to infiltrate a heavily fortified Special Forces controlled building with an old man and a boy. Patti had said that she and Mohorovic had already put plans in motion that would allow The Empress's convoy and twelve man "work team," in reality a Chinese Special Forces team, to arrive at the vault site without facing resistance.

"How?" She asked.

"Your old friend Storr."

"Excuse me?"

"He's coming with his Elite force. We've tipped him off."

"Are you insane?"

"No. Tak hired him to bring you in. Prokofiev Delta is Storr's problem, too. He can't come after you with them in the way."

"So now what?"

Patti laughed under her breath. "As expected, Storr called for help, a diversion, so he could follow you. Now here's where it gets interesting. Tak knows that if she sends in her own forces, the Americans will respond in kind. She doesn't want to do that... So she'd called on the Euros."

"The Euros?"

"Yes, they have two Enforcers Corps companies airborne and they'll be in Dubai by nightfall, along with air support."

"How did she manage that?"

"She threatened to pull the plug on their oil supply, so they'll do what she says. The Euros will attack Prokofiev Delta north of the tower and keep them preoccupied while you slip in and empty the vault. Initially, the Americans won't interfere because the Euros are their allies. There will be a lot of saber rattling, but not much else from them."

"What about Storr? I'll have him on my back."

"No, you won't. I've left an indication for Prokofiev Delta. They'll cut off Storr before he reaches the city. About forty combatants already in place. He'll be coming up from the south, following the main coastal road. They have a nice little ambush set up."

"And if they fail?"

"Then the Euros won't."

"You've turned this into a nightmare."

"I thought you'd enjoy the challenge."

"You thought wrong."

"Well, you know what you have to do, and I suspect I'll be calling with some good news. You can make plans for your reunion with General Zim."

"That's not a bribe. He doesn't even know I'm still alive. And when he finds out, he won't want to see me."

"Oh, he knows very well you're alive, and the Americans have been leaning hard on him for information. In fact, he's become quite the security risk."

"So you're not rescuing him for me. It's for yourselves."

"It's for everyone."

The Empress had snorted and ended the call.

"I have to go to the bathroom," Said Chopra, rising from his chair, his expression asking the question.

She nodded and watched as he moved past the bed, behind her, toward the bathroom. Her hand had remained on the bed, away from the pistol.

A mistake.

He came in from behind her, dropping his full weight on her back and trapping her there.

Then he reached across the bed, nearly getting his hand on the pistol before she slammed her elbow into his arm.

He gasped in pain as the weapon flew off the bed and thumped onto the carpet.

"Hussein, get the gun!" Cried Chopra.

* * *

Dib had thought that after three decades of this madness he'd seen it all- police officers selling drugs out of their stations, Marines using their armor breastplates as grills to cook steaks over an open fire. His world was utterly absurd, yet the insanity had begun to feel familiar and comfortable. Expect chaos and suddenly everything is normal, despite the gasps and wide eyes from civilians.

But maybe he had _not _seen it all. He certainly hadn't seen _this _coming.

Surveillance video along with detailed hardcopy and electronic documentation had allowed Major Katrina Parsons to give Zim an Irken Defector/ Citizenship card and a "transfer."

She had transferred him, all right.

Straight into the unknown.

They were both MIA.

"My God, General, is she a traitor?" Asked Dib.

"We don't know anything else yet, but since Zim is connected to The Empress, I wanted you updated. From this point on, you'll be working with Colonel Oliver instead of Parsons. I'll be checking in from time to time myself. This is a strange and disturbing turn of events."

"Roger that, sir. I'll add Parsons and Zim to our friend or foes cues."

"That's already been done," Said Oliver. "We have no reason to believe she'd head to your location, but a rendezvous between The Empress and Zim could occur in the near future"

"Yeah, in prison," Added Dib.

"Now, Lieutenant," The General began, narrowing his gaze. "We know what you're up against. Just remember: The Russians have a saying- _feel the cloth._ It comes from the days when men used to fight shoulder to shoulder and you could feel your buddy's arm rubbing against yours. It gave you courage. It reminded you that you weren't alone. Just go out there and feel the cloth. We're here to back you up any way we can."

"Thank you, sir. Our infiltration was successful. I expect that if the target arrives, she'll be either terminated or in custody."

"Excellent."

The General ended his link, leaving Dib to face Colonel Oliver, whose deep scowl transformed him into an angry bird about to sink his talons into his flesh. Remarkably, he abandoned the cutting remarks and criticism and got down to business. "Dib, I'm taking into account that you might have received bad intel from Major Parsons and that she no doubt tipped off our enemies, but now more than ever we need results. I see you've placed snipers on the roof and have a perimeter around the tower."

"Observation posts out to about a kilometer from the vault. And I've got Volker moving down to recon the entrance. Schoolie's still patched into his sticky cams."

"We're looking at those cams as well. I've also been following Lakota. Still no contact with Prokofiev Delta."

"She's working on that, and she tells me she's an excellent translator."

Most of his team had received extensive language training, but with the Cross-Com and intelligence teams monitoring back home, they could receive rapid fire translations as they spoke with foreign peoples without having to attach a translator to the team. This was a welcome improvement in the last few years. Many of the translators Dib used in the States were Irkens, and mainly turned out to be spies or were branded as traitors by other troopers and targeted for execution; consequently, they required extra protection.

"Once we link up with Prokofiev Delta, we'll see who's running the show," Dib went on. "Do we have any better estimates on the size and composition of this force?"

"Pretty big. I'm surprised they have this many SF units. Battalion sized force. Maybe a thousand if they're lucky. Heavily equipped. High powered rifles. Advanced armor systems. Pretty high tech. We've had some sketchy intel on these guys in the past, but this group has been largely ignored, they always flew under the radar and we couldn't gather enough intel on them. There's a lot of movement in and out of Kish Island right here," He said, switching his image to a topo map of the area.

Kish was about 120 miles northwest of Dubai, across the Gulf. Before the strikes it had been touted as a consumer's paradise because of its free trade zone. Now it was a bombed out junkyard.

"Alright, we'll keep an eye on that place, too. This could be a problem if we can't get them to work with us, they're heavily armed and they've got the numbers. Hoping this is easier than high school and I can make new friends."

"Good luck with that, Dib. You'll need it. Because we're going to pin a medal on your ass or boot it. Either way, when this is over, you and I will sit down and have a nice, long talk about the way you handled this."

He took a deep breath. "Understood."

Bang, he ended the call.

Well, there it was. Even if he brought in The Empress, Oliver would still burn him for going over his head. So it didn't matter anymore, really. He wasn't supposed to be here for himself, right? He was here to complete the mission, which in turn was vital to the security and stability of his entire planet and country. That's the promise he'd made. That the promise he'd keep, career be damned.

But just to show them how good he was, he'd capture The Empress, drag her kicking and screaming all the way back to Fort Bragg, and dump her in Oliver's lap.

"Ghostex Lead, this is Lakota. We've made contact."

_Well that didn't take long,_ he thought. "On my way."

Nice thing about the suits. Both her location and a suggested route were already superimposed in his HUD. He followed the yellow line, or the yellow brick road, as they liked to quip, to her location between the towers, where she, Pak, and Heston were standing beside two militants who'd been wearing older MOPP gear much rather than the newer suits, and had removed their heavy face masks.

Dib was not surprised when he'd discovered the two heavily bearded Prokofiev Delta troops spoke Russian. They said they were operating under the command of one Major Tuvia Vantutin, who had established a camp on Kish Island from where he directed operations. They'd called Tuvia, who'd said he'd be willing to meet with Dib. Tuvia said that since the orbital bombardment, he'd been tasked with observing the area as well as protecting key locations among other things in the world.

Lakota said it was a two to three hour boat ride to Kish, and Dib was concerned that The Empress might arrive while they were gone. He asked the men to see if Tuvia could come to see them, but Tuvia refused. This was, Dib knew, part of the "power game" of negotiations, and if Dib wanted anything out of Tuvia he needed to play along.

"All right," Dib said. "Tell him we're coming out to see him. Copeland? Daugherty? You guys are in charge of your teams. Lakota and I are going to Kish Island. Schleck, Riggs? Keep eyes on."

The snipers acknowledged.

"I want to be back before nightfall," Dib told Lakota.

She nodded. "All we can do is try."

They climbed into the Prokofiev Delta Tigr and drove toward the coast.

* * *

Chopra could not believe the power that lay within The Empress's arms. She threw him off as though he were weightless. He sailed off the bed, toward the back wall, as she dove for the pistol lying on the floor.

Hussein just sat there, frozen. He could have reached the gun before she did.

The Empress snatched up the pistol, then came around and back toward Chopra, her eyes fiery as she reared back and pistol whipped him at the base of his neck. His glasses flew off, so he didn't see the second blow coming, only felt the sudden pain in his cheek. Had that been a fist or a boot? He wasn't sure. He slid down the wall and slammed onto his rump.

Hussein screamed for her to stop, but The Empress shouted more loudly, "Just when I was thanking you for making it easy, you do this!?"

"Please don't hit him anymore! Please!" The boy cried again.

"Are you serious?" She asked. "You don't care about him. You didn't care about your country, your father, your family. You don't give a damn about anything but yourself. You're a selfish little bastard, and maybe, after you give me what I want, I'll cut off your head and put it on a stick outside the vault. What do you think of that?"

"I think you're a crazy bitch."

"Then you should've gotten my gun. You're a little boy. A fool. That's what you are. You've thrown away everything your family stood for so you could be a pig watching movies and playing games all day. If your parents could see you now, they would vomit."

Chopra reached out, fumbled across the carpet, and found his glasses. He slipped them on, but they'd been bent and the nosepiece dug in sharply. He removed them, made an adjustment, then pushed back against the wall, trying to stand. His cheek was already swelling, and his neck throbbed and ached. He began to feel nauseated himself as he swallowed back more blood.

"You can take me to the vault," He told The Empress. "But I won't let you in. I won't."

"You will,"She said confidently. "Because I know how much you care about him. And I'll torture him slowly, right in front of you, if you don't do what I say." She raised a brow. "I won't remind you of this again. I'll just do it."

Chopra looked fire at her.

Hussein just stared.

"You're not a Sheikh," She said, turning back to the boy. "You'll never be."

Chopra glanced at Hussein, the gears obviously turning in his youthful head.

There was no deal to strike with The Empress. The boy should understand that by now. They had but one goal: escape. Chopra wasn't sure how else to convince the boy.

* * *

Dib wished he could have sent Lakota and Daugherty over to Kish Island to meet with Tuvia, but he knew how these lone gun commander types operated. First, Tuvia would not respect Lakota's authority because she was a woman. Second, Tuvia would feel slighted because Dib had sent his underlings instead of coming himself. You had to show face to save face. Dib would hear phrases like, "We are a proud people" and "The invaders who come to rob our planet will be executed."

While riding aboard the small and agonizingly small boat, he contacted Oliver and had him tap Ghostex's intelligence sources to positively identify Tuvia. Oliver said once they had an image of his face they could do so immediately.

They reached the east side of the island and were met at the dock by a security force of eight men, all wearing the newer gear like Dib's team. They climbed into two Tigrs and were driven down to the postwar remnants of the Dariush Grand Hotel, once a 125 million dollar five star affair with more than two hundred guest rooms. Cross-Com data indicated the place had been built to resemble Persepolis, a city of ancient Iranian civilization and the ceremonial capital of the Persian Empire.

Now the hotel's once magnificent grand columns and towering archways that reminded Dib more of ancient Rome than Persia lay in piles of rubble through which they threaded, finding what had once been an ornate marble stairway framed by rubble and leading down into the shadows.

Two of the security fired up flares, which made Lakota glance strangely at Dib. He assumed they'd have at least flashlight powered by solar cells or other conventional batteries, but they clearly had limited resources being on their own.

In the eerie, hissing and flickering flare light, Dib noted that the walls, once adorned by ornate murals of gardens and waterfalls, had been scorched black by terrible fires, and as they descended farther, Dib experienced the enormity of what happened in this region. They had been far from ground zero, but there had been an unrelenting shower of conventional plasma shelling prior to the orbital bombardment. Kish, though not a primary military target, had been flattened as an economic blow, because it was one of the most popular tourist destinations and helped bolster the Iranian economy.

They continued on, winding their way through a labyrinth of bombed out hallways intersected by fallen walls and doors blasted off their hinges. Once they had descended two more flights of stairs that had been somewhat expertly repaired with bricks and thick mortar, they finally reached an open area that might have been some ballroom or conference room, Dib wasn't sure. Giant chandeliers hung like twinkling ships from the ceiling but remained dark. The room was in fact lit by only a few dim, battery operated floodlights.

Two unmasked men stood at the entrance, both clutching the bullpup variant of the AK-103. They allowed the group to pass. Several large writing tables laden with maps, charts, all other kinds of paper, and small computers and GPS systems lay directly ahead, along with books, thousands of books rising in piles like the Manhattan skyline against the horizon of more massive bookshelves lining the back wall.

Seated behind the broadest desk, a hand carved piece of furniture as gaudy as Dib had ever seen, was a man who had to be Tuvia. He had his knee high leather boots kicked up on his desk, his long finger ran down the margin of a report in his hand. A pair of bifocals had slipped down the tip of his nose. Dib found it a bit ironic that a relentless Special Forces group still managed his forces via hardcopy documentation; that was about as old school as it got. Ghostex: Delta 6 had been paperless as long as Dib or anyone else could remember.

Tuvia glanced up from his report. "Ah, finally!"

He immediately rose and walked around the desk to greet them. He was a tall man, six foot five and Dib guessed the man was two hundred and twenty pounds of muscle, dressed in digital flora combat fatigues, black portupeya belt wrapping around his abdomen, attached sash going over his right shoulder. Tuvia wore some type of sage visor hat that Dib had never seen before. Surprisingly enough, Tuvia proffered his hand and said, "You must be Lieutenant Dib Membrane of Ghostex: Delta 6, team alpha of the first company."

He spoke perfect English with a Russian accent. Abruptly, a data box opened in his HUD, and information on the man scrolled downward as Oliver had promised. Tuvia's face had been analyzed by the teams back home, who updated Dib with more than he'd ever need to know. Tuvia, the analysts guess was as good as Dibs, was cousin of the Al Maktoum family, not directly in line to lead, but family member nonetheless.

"I see they're feeding you the gossip on me," Said Tuvia, indicating the little flashes of light he detected in Dib's faceplate. "But you won't find much. You can take off your helmets here."

"Thank you. I'm sorry, but how would you like to be addressed?"

The man grinned. "Tuvia would be fine."

Dib removed his helmet, which clicked and hissed as he rasied it over his head. "All right. I'm Alex."

"Alexander the Great," Said Tuvia with a grin.

"No, just a soldier here to help. And most people just call me Dib." He turned. "This is my second in command, Sergeant Lakota."

Lakota removed her helmet and shook out her hair. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

He issued a polite if not perfunctory grin at Lakota but refocused his attention on Dib. "First we eat, drink, then talk."

"Excellent," Said Dib.

Lakota looked at him, a bit weary. They didn't have time for this, but refusing the invitation would be an insult.

As they followed Tuvia toward the door near the back, Dib nodded at Lakota, who was donning her Cross-Com headset and earpiece so they remained in contact with the team and the network. As they walked, she spoke softly: "I'm having a hard time connecting to Oliver now. WAN uplink temporarily unavailable."

"That's weird. Keep trying," Said Dib.

"I don't like this, sir."

Dib gave her a sobering look. "I'll check back at the towers, see if LAN's operational." He did so, and the team reported back in sans any comm problems.

"Dib, I've finished my reconnaissance of the entrance way to the vault, and I've picked out some ambush points, if you want to take a look," Said Volker.

"Busy now, But I will. Run them by the others. Meantime, stand by. I'll be in touch."

(End Chapter)


	22. Chapter 21

"It's kind of like extreme sports... Except people are trying to kill you." - Unknown

* * *

Chapter Twenty One

**Town of Al Malaiha**

**About Seventy Five Kilometers from Dubai **

The Empress yawned as the headlights reached out into the darkness, toward the squalid town rising in the distance. They were heading south on Highway 55, pushing through vast stretches of nothingness. She thought she saw an oil refinery off to their right, but the shadows and dust had collected into curtains of gloom.

Patti had procured four Renault medium sized cargo trucks with telecom service's yellow logo splashed across the sides. These trucks were not uncommon and wouldn't draw much attention to themselves.

The other three trucks were driven by members of her team, only one of whom, a Captain Chen Ji, actually spoke a little Irken. Her Chinese was poor, and they'd tested their English on each other with only marginal success. Patti had sworn that every man had been handpicked by herself and Mohorovic and that all could be trusted. The Empress grinned to herself over that joke.

Her cell phone rang: unknown caller. She answered with her breath held. "Jul, is that you?"

She almost drove off the road. "Zim?"

"Jul, it's me."

"I don't know what to say."

"They're taking me to meet you, in Dubai, so you don't have anything to say right now. I know what you did. I know why you did it. And nothing matters anymore. I just want to see you."

A hollow aching woke in her chest. She was actually speaking to him, to Chieftain Major General Zim, formerly of the Irken Elite and the IMID, a man she had hurt more than any other in this universe, she thought. "I'm so sorry. About everything."

About more then she could ever tell him- about leading him on, staging her death with Tak's help, dropping off the grid, and turning their relationship into a lie. He was the only one who had touched her after her husband's death. Zim wasn't an expendable tool. He meant something to her.

"Don't worry, Jul. I have always been here. It's not too late for us. If you will have me..."

She began to choke up.

"Jul? Are you still there?"

She summoned the strength and coldness back into her voice. "I can't talk right now. But as you say, we'll meet. Take care, Zim."

Chopra was seated beside her, with Hussein next to him across the long bench. "Is everything okay?" Asked the old man.

"Shut up."

The boy asked, "Are you sad?"

"Not a word from either of you."

"What about that?" Hussein added, pointing toward the windshield.

Hearing Zim's voice had taken her years and millions of kilometers away, back to her work with him, back to their affair, to the moments lying in bed with him, moments so tender and so clear that she'd failed to see the roadblock looming ahead.

She radioed to Chen Ji, who in turn called back to the other drivers. Then she alerted Patti. "You didn't tell me there'd be a roadblock."

"They must have observation posts. You've been tagged. We didn't count on this."

"Russian Tigrs, maybe twenty armed combatants."

"We can't afford any more delays," Said Patti. "The Euros are on their way. Storr is moving toward his trap. You've got your own troops. Deal with it."

The Empress cursed, then called to Chen Ji and told him to be ready. She mashed the accelerator pedal, and the truck lurched forward.

"They're going to shoot us!" Cried Hussein.

The kid's appreciation of the obvious was not lost on her. As they barreled toward the roadblock, the soldiers lifted their rifles and took up defensive positions alongside the Tigrs. She braced herself.

And not three heartbeats later, the hailstorm of fire began, incoming rounds pinging along the truck, sparks dancing over the hood and side panels as she throttled up even more and both Chopra and the boy hollered for her to pull over.

And then, resigning to the situation, she spun the wheel, pulling off the road, as the other three trucks roared by, now taking the brunt of those rounds just as one of the Tigr mounted MGs opened up. Her truck bounced violently over ruts and through small dunes.

Not a second after the last truck blew by, she cut the wheel again, bringing them into the draft of the last vehicle and keeping tight on that driver's wheels. They had a temporary shield, but they still had to pass those combatants.

The lead truck blasted through the Tigrs blocking the road, knocking the one donning the MG on its side, the other sideways. Steel and glass groaned and shattered while tired screeched across the pavement.

The next two trucks hammered through the gap, taking fire from both sides as though going through a car wash using bullets instead of water. At the same time, all that glass rained like diamonds glistening in the headlights.

Now it was her turn.

She took in a long breath. Held it.

They thundered into the opening, past the Tigrs lying askew, gunfire riddling the other side of their truck.

_Just a second more... A second... _

But in that second the window beside Hussein exploded and Chopra let out a scream.

She breathed, cursed again, turned, and the stench of gas immediately filled the cabin.

A glance to one of the side mirrors showed a string of winking lights- muzzle flashes to be sure- and the thumping continued, punching holes in the back of the truck. Next came a crack and a loud bang, then a steady hissing as the driver's side rear tire went flat. Before she could clear the second truck, a dull thud came from beneath the hood, and flames licked up toward the windshield.

You didn't need auto mechanic training to conclude that the fuel line had been hit and had now ignited. And you didn't need a driver's safety lesson to realize that if you didn't abandon the truck, you'd die in the fire, the explosion, or both.

With Chopra and the kid still hollering, she swung once more to the side of the road, booted the brake pedal, and brought the truck to a rattling halt. The gunfire continued, AK type weapons popping, triplets of fire ricocheting off metal or stitching across the asphalt.

"Get out!" She ordered the kid. "I'll get him!"

"I've been hit in the side," Said Chopra. "I can feel the blood. Terrible pain."

"I don't care. Come on!" She cried, wrenching open her door, seizing him by the arm, and dragging him out of the cab as he shrieked and shuddered.

They hit the sand, and, as more gunfire suddenly woke around the truck, Chen Ji's vehicle stopped short just ahead. The rear door rolled open, and three of his men jumped out and began firing a barrage from their machine guns that suppressed the incoming fire. The Empress glanced out to the roadblock, where the soldiers there began shifting and returning fire.

"We need a doctor," Shouted Hussein.

The kid's power of observation was astounding.

The Empress brought Chopra round the burning truck, using it as a temporary shield while guiding him back and away, with more thick smoke pouring from beneath the hood. They dropped into the deeper sand along the embankment. Chopra continued wincing.

"One of those men is a medic," She told the boy. "In the back truck, in the cab. Go get him."

Hussein remained a moment, his gaze torn between the incoming gunfire and the trucks up the road.

"I'm bleeding, a lot," Said Chopra. "Please, Hussein. I need help..."

The Empress put pressure on Chopra's wound. "Either you get the medic or he dies," She told Hussein. "And if he dies, we don't get into the vault. Then I'll have no use for you, right?"

Hussein swallowed. His eyes welled up.

She could almost see the tug and pull of his thoughts. With a start, he darted away, carrying his flabby little body towards the trucks.

It was about time the kid showed some courage. He'd obviously been rasied by cowards and fools, and she was probably the best influence he'd ever had. Without her, he'd been stuck in his pathetic hole.

Two of Chen Ji's men from the lead truck sprinted past them carrying shoulder mounted weapons. The Empress did not recognize the ordnance, but she quipped that the weapons were no doubt Chinese knock offs of something engineered by the Americans or the Euros.

The Empress turned her head to the broken blockade, and the other Tigr that hand't been flipped over turned it's own ordnance on the two Chinese Spec Ops troops from it's top hatch. She heard the word, "Bogon!_" _Being yelled from the barricade, _fire! _And nearly in unison, the cylindrical weapon fired not one, not two, but three rockets in a single trigger pull.

It all happened in a gasp.

The road between the Tigr and Chen Ji's men lit up in a triplet of fireworks display of glowing red rocket engines. Smoke trails extended like powdery threads to sew up the air for a second before a cacophony of explosions rose from the ground beneath Chen Ji's operators. The two soldiers along with their weapons and screams were lifted into the air in three massive detonations, the fireballs swelled high into the air, casting a blinding glow that had The Empress shielding her eyes and ducking down to avoid the shower of concrete as the heat wave struck and pushed over them.

Chen Ji ran up behind the machine gunners, barking orders in Chinese. They retreated to the trucks as Hussein returned with the medic and Chen Ji approached with them.

"Please help him," Said Hussein.

The medic, a middle aged man with a snake's eyes, produced a pair of medical shears and got to work exposing Chopra's wound.

"He has to work in the truck," Said Chen Ji. "We have to move him right now. We can't stay here."

The medic yelled something in Chinese to Chen Ji.

"I don't care," Chen Ji answered.

"We have to move him," The Empress echoed. She batted away the medic's hand. "We'll get him into the back and you work on him there."

"Not good move," Said the medic in broken Irken.

"No time!" Snapped The Empress in Chinese. "We're moving him right now!"

"I can go," Said Chopra, glancing back to Hussein. "Thank you. Thank you for getting him."

The bot looked scared. Really scared.

"All right," Said The Empress. "Here we go!"

She and Chen Ji helped Chopra to his feet.

And that's when the old man fainted.

* * *

Dib and Lakota had sat at the small, round, wooden table Tuvia had set up, sipping tea and eating rice, beans, and lamb dish that Dib found a bit too spicy for his tastes, but he'd eaten it nonetheless. Tuvia, as expected, a gracious and painfully ceremonial host who had spent several hours discussing his family's history, his commitment to restoring Russia back to power, and the extensive needs of his entire unit to the Motherland.

It was clear to him that they were here to strike a deal of sorts, and he was not shy in making his demands. Ironically, he never asked why Dib and his team were in the area. He's assumed that it was all about him, as a man in his position might be wont to do.

The conversation had then drifted to Dib and Lakota, and he'd asked them pointed questions about their lives in the United States, why they'd joined the military, and what thoughts they had about the war and when it all might end. Both were noncommittal in their responses, trying to feed the man what he wanted to hear. Ironically, he called them out for that, and Dib had been forced to apologize. For the better part of two minutes, Dib went on a rant of everything he thought was wrong about the war and the military.

Tuvia had grinned. "Now that is the truth!"

Finally, growing weary on any more delays, and believing they had indulged Tuvia enough, Dib got down to business. "We're actually here because we're after a woman who might have access to the underground vaults here. She's captured a man named Manoj Chopra."

Tuvia's mouth fell open. "Chopra? We thought he was dead. I thought the Irkens were using his name to try to contact me. Maybe that was him all along. We could never verify..."

"She has Chopra, and she also has Hussein, son of the late Sheikh and heir to Dubai."

"My cousin? We all thought he was dead, too. I knew his sisters were alive, but they had always grown silent whenever I asked about Hussein. Why didn't you tell me this immediately?" Tuvia glanced around the room, his thoughts obviously racing, his eyes widening.

Dib winced. "I didn't want to offend you or dismiss your hospitality."

Tuvia snapped to his feet. "I'm guessing this woman, an Irken, is The Empress."

"Yes." Dib was drawn back a moment. "We brought in a small team to fly under the radar. We need your unit to work with ours."

"Consider it done!"

"All right, then-"

Dib didn't finish his sentence.

What felt like an earthquake rocked the entire room, dust trickling down from the ceiling, the floor feeling as though it were about to buckle. A bookcase behind Tuvia began shaking, the books spilling to the floor.

One of Tuvia's men came charging into the room. "Sir, gunships! Troops! European configuration, we're under attack!"

"Get to the Tunguska and the Tigrs!"

As Dib and Lakota donned their helmets and sealed their suits, Tuvia bounded after his men, seizing a bullpup AK-103 propped up near the doorway.

When they reached the bombed out entrance, they spotted a pair of gunships across across the night sky.

Dib's camera zoomed in and the computer immediately identified the aircraft. Data windows opened along the margins of his display. They were looking at a pair of VAH-62s, the main attack chopper of the European Federation. They were dark, sleek, futuristic looking birds that boasted hydrogen powered turbo shafts, shrouded tail rotors, and HOT-3 optically tracked laser guided missiles with tandem warheads to minimize collateral damage.

A rotating three dimensional image with engine cutaways glowed alongside the windows, but Dib didn't need the virtual picture- the real life picture was clear enough. The gunships streaked through the night as though riding on rails, suggesting they could outmaneuver anything thrown at them. Dib had seen these choppers only a few times during joint operations with the Euros, and he'd certainly never found himself poised beneath their gunner's sights.

"What the hell are the Euros doing here?" Shouted Lakota.

"Good question!" Dib cried. "But the damn uplink is still down. Try hailing those birds."

"On it," She replied.

"He's coming around," Hollered Tuvia, pointing at the sky and ushering them back behind a pair of fallen columns as the recoiless autocannons on both choppers came alive, hundreds of rounds of caseless ammunition pounding into the ground as Prokofiev Delta members scrambled for cover. Tuvia had said he had about two hundred in Dubai at the moment, two hundred on the island, and the rest scattered across the other islands and in the desert areas. It seemed the Euros were intent on exterminating this piece of Tuvia's network. "Davay!" The man cried.

"Sir, Volker says the WAN uplink's not down- it's being jammed," Reported Lakota. "Can't get through. And no response from those pilots."

Dib ducked behind the rocks and called up his roster. He tapped Daugherty. Their suits used the most sophisticated encryption technology that the Russians could produce, which was even more advanced than any American or Irken encryption Dib had ever seen, and it payed off because the LAN still worked and Daugherty answered the call. "I'm here, Ghostex Lead."

"Euros have some gunships here over the island," Dib reported.

"Just going to call you. Troop transports landing about five clicks north of the tower. They're deploying. Got a few heavy lifters dropping some armor. Not sure how many dismounts yet. Lieutenant, what is this? The Euros got our backs now?"

"I don't know. But they're attacking Prokofiev Delta, which in my book makes them the enemy."

"Sir, are you ordering us to attack them?"

"Negative, but you'll return fire if fired upon."

"Roger that."

Dib grabbed Lakota by the arm. "We need to get back."

She'd been listening in and nodded.

A strange whirring and fluctuating hiss grew louder and was amplified by the suit's sensors. Dib caned his head in time to watch the entire entrance to the compound- piles of rubble, really- explode into more fountains of rock and other jagged debris as the gunship's pilot cut loose another missile, effectively sealing off the main entrance to Tuvia's base.

Two Tigr's rolled into view with 12.7 KORD Heavy Machine Guns mounted to their open swivel hatches. The men behind those machine guns swung their barrels around and, howling at the gunships, directed fire skyward as brass casings jingled and arced over the sides. Every third round was a tracer, slashing red hot against the night, and both men adjusted fire, doing what they could to counterattack an overwhelming force.

The engines, screams, and gunfire rose in a blaring crescendo as the gunners kept firing. Dib remembered what happened to the two trucks in Sandhurst, and he doubted this situation would end any better.

As expected, the gunship's turned to respond, diving boldly and directly into the onslaught, pilots about to launch their weapons. But then, the growing rumble grew intense, moments before a 9K22 Tunguska exploded from the direction the Tigrs had come from. The gunner of that armored vehicle pointed his twin 30mm autocannons, and let them rip at nineteen hundred rounds per minute, tearing the front of those choppers the night sky lit up with hundreds of tracers, one of the chopper pilots cut left, out of that tracked SAMs line of fire and behind the building, the other one cut right.

Wrong move.

The Tunguska's gun readjusted, gunner following the chopper through his scope as the radar operator got a bead on that chopper, and just as the vehicle commander ordered him to, the gunner pulled the trigger, and one of the eight side mounted 9M311 Tunguska anti air missiles ripped away from the anti air vehicle in a terrific whoosh, and a gasp later, the chopper had been engulfed in flames, and slammed the ground, secondary explosions sounding off as the flames grew more intense.

"What are they doing?" Tuvia demanded. "I thought you Americans were allied with them!"

"So did I!" Dib retorted.

And as quickly as the choppers had come, the one that hadn't been blasted from the sky, was gone.

"Why is it leaving?" Asked Lakota.

Dib made a face and gestured toward the Tunguska, engine still humming loudly, it's weapons scanning the skies. "Call Daugherty."

She did. Dib told Tuvia they needed transport back to the vault and a contingent of men to come with them.

"I'll lead them myself." Tuvia told him.

One of Tuvia's Lieutenants came dashing up with a large satellite phone and thrust it into Tuvia's hand. The conversation went quickly, and when it was finished, Tuvia said, "Some of my men attacked a convoy near Al Malaiha. Three trucks are still headed south. Also, there's been another skirmish with my troops south of Dubai, along the coast. I don't know what it's about, but they were Irkens. can you contact your people?"

Dib frowned. He tried to call Oliver himself. Still no uplink. "We're being jammed. And until my people can stop it, I'm cut off from back home."

Tuvia nodded. "Very well. To the docks."

As they jogged off, Dib called back to Riggs and Schleck, who were still up on the rooftops. He warned them of the convoy and the Irkens.

"No worries, Boss. We're on it," Said Riggs.

* * *

The Empress's group was down to three trucks, and they would have to make the gold fit or leave some bricks behind, unless Patti could somehow arrange for a replacement. She sat in the back, trying to keep the flashlight steady as the medic gave her somber looks. He'd already started an IV on Chopra, but he didn't seem very pleased with that and muttered to himself in Chinese.

Chopra's breathing had grown shallow and wheezy. Though the medic didn't say it, he probably couldn't say it in Irken or English, The Empress guessed that the bullet had pierced Chopra's lung and chest cavity and that he was bleeding internally.

If the old bastard could live long enough to get them into the vault, she'd be okay. _Just keep him alive,_ she kept screaming to herself. Part of her wanted the stubborn old bastard to die; yet she pitied the man because he had put so much faith and belief in a punk kid who would ultimately break his heart.

She checked her watch.

They were less than twenty minutes away now, and Chen Ji called her to say that he saw flashes, smoke, and fires in the distance.

She grinned. The Europeans had arrived.

Hussein sat across from them, his back pressed against the truck wall, fingers wrapped around a leather rung attached to the wall and used for strapping down cargo. "I want to tell you something," He began, raising his voice above the shimmying truck.

"What?" She said, grimacing.

"You have to keep us alive. The vault is rigged. We're both living keys. If we die while inside, the explosions will kill everyone and destroy the gold. My father was careful about these things. He explained everything to me. Showed me everything."

"Nice try, kid. We've studied the vault. We know exactly how it was constructed and what security measures are in place."

"You think you do."

She snorted. "We'll see." She glanced down at Chopra, still wheezing, and then the medic, who was listening to Chopra's chest through a stethoscope and plugging numbers into a touchpad medical device that was providing an ultrasound like image of Chopra's lungs. "Bullet here," Said the medic. "I find it. No good."

"I need him alive for another half hour. Can you do that?"

"Uncertain," Said the medic.

She glanced back at the kid, just as a tear slipped from one of his eyes.

"So now you're finally scared," She said.

"I'm not scared." He dragged a hand across his face. "I'm not..."

"You should be."

"Are you going to kill us?"

"I don't want you to die. I want you to lead your country. I told you that. But if you get in my way, then you know what'll happen. Simple as that."

Chopra began coughing loudly, and then he was choking, spitting up blood all over his shirt, over the medic, and the truck floor.

The Empress screamed at the medic, who rifled through his bag, produced a needle, and punched it into Chopra's ribs. He did something to the needle, and air whistled through. Chopra gasped and was beginning to calm. He caught a breath, then another.

"He bleed bad. Not much time," Said the medic.

"How long?" She demanded.

"Uncertain," The medic shrugged.

"Don't let him die," Pleaded Hussein.

Chopra reached out toward the boy, who just gaped at the bloody hand.

* * *

A flotilla of about thirty RHIB boats with mounted 12.7 KORDs and AGS-80 automatic grenade machine guns left Kish Island, and Tuvia was able to take Dib and Lakota back in a high speed PBX boat, similar to a CRRC, the only one among the RHIBs, Tuvia said he liked to use it so he could land before everyone else and be prepared to distribute orders.

Tensions were expectedly high, and Dib was somewhat baffled that chopper did not return to attack; it seemed he was being lured back toward Dubai.

As they neared the city- the skyscrapers like monoliths, black and dead- lightning, like flashes of combat, backlit the clouds about twenty miles north, somewhere near the airport, Dib estimated.

But up there, on the Gold and Silver Towers respectively, were Dib's eyes and ears, his own low tech satellite feed in the form of snipers Schleck and Riggs.

"They've got about ten Tarrs rolling south from the airport area, but real slow," Said Schleck. "Real slow. Weird. They're taking fire from Prokofiev Delta, but their response so far has been limited."

The European Federation's DSX-26 Tarr was a hybrid powered, eight wheeled troop transport equipped with a Spanish made thirty millimeter duel feed chain gun that fired seven hundred rounds per minute. Another variant came with a special multipurpose TOW missile system capable of engaging both ground and air targets.

However, the most notable and dreaded feature of the vehicle was its high powered microwave emitter, capable of dispersing groups of infantry with less than lethal dose of microwaves producing the sensation of being burned alive. Though microwave weapons were first brought to light by the Irkens, Earthen military's were able to produce such weapons over the years of war.

Dib had only seen the results of the lethal setting one a microwave weapon once. It was horrific to say the least.

"We need to cut them off before they get near the vault. In fact, I want that place to look dead, so if our girl is with that convoy, she walks right in- then we've got her."

"Roger that. No sign of the convoy yet. Wait a minute. Hold on. Whoa, whoa, whoa. Take a look, Lieutenant..."

A camera window opened in Dib's HUD. Three trucks with lights off drove northwest up 1st Road, heading directly toward the Gold and Silver Towers.

"That's got to be her," Dib said. "Heads up, everyone, this is Ghostex Lead. Three trucks inbound. Do not make contact. Just observe, roger?"

Alpha and Bravo teams checked in, and Schoolie, who was still deep in the parking garage, acknowledged that he had the trucks on Volker's sticky cams.

"Man," Said Schoolie. "Looks like they;re headed right for me. Hold on a damned minute. They are! Coming down into this parking garage!" He cursed.

"Schoolie, hide the gear and get to cover," Dib ordered. "Do not engage. Observe only. Just like at the bar back home. Sit tight and watch."

(End Chapter)


	23. Chapter 22

"Seventy five percent of us believe we should do what the Tallest's tell us to do. I, along with the other twenty five percent believe you should do what you like to do. And if you're on the battlefield one day and don't like what you're doing, think about changing." - Irken defector

* * *

Chapter Twenty Two

**Silver Tower**

**Business District, Dubai **

Chopra chased the boys down the street, lost them in a crowd at the intersection, then launched himself into the air, soaring like a bird as metallic wings sprouted from his back. He circled the crowd, spotted the boys once again, then swooped down and ripped the first one off his bike.

The second looked up as Chopra plucked him from the bike and tossed him to the ground as the bike crashed into a pair of steel garbage cans near the edge of the alley. Chopra landed in front of the boys, who were still lying on their rumps. They backed away, stunned.

"My father gave me this bike. You shouldn't have taken it. You have no idea what it means to me."

"Chopra? Chopra?"

He opened his eyes, saw a face half draped in darkness. The image grew more distinct... Hussein.

"We're here now. We have to get you up," The boy said.

Where were they? He remembered being shot, the pain, the truck, something about not having much time.

And then he remembered.

He was dying.

"Chopra, they're going to move you."

His mouth tasted foul, his lips dry and cracked with something. He licked them. Salty. Blood. The shooting pain and hissing from his chest would not go away. His fingers and toes were beginning to go numb.

Loud engines whined somewhere outside the truck. Chopra leaned his head to the right and spotted something quite surreal: Three forklifts powered by natural gas drove in a line past the truck and toward a long tunnel, their tiny headlights barely pushing past the darkness.

A fourth forklift stopped behind the truck, this one driven by The Empress herself. She hopped out and climbed up into the truck, "We're going to move you into the seat next to me," She told Chopra.

Hussein came around, and together with the medic, they lifted him into a standing position. Tee world tilted strangely on its axis, and they caught him before he fell.

* * *

Dib was climbing into one of the Tigrs driven by one of Tuvia's men when Schoolie called him. "Dib, I'm looking at her right now. I heard them come down here. There must be a tunnel that runs from this tower to the vault. She's got about a dozen guys. They look Chinese. Military. They're heading over there. Take a look."

He finished taking a seat in the back compartment, then focused on his HUD, where he saw The Empress, the boy, and a Chinese soldier helping the old man into the seat of one of the forklifts.

"Schoolie, you are way too close. Get out of there. Wait for us."

"Aren't you going to thank me? You got confirmation. The target is here. I can move in on her right now."

"Negative!"

"It's just them. Her team's already gone ahead. That trooper is unarmed. I can take her right out now."

Dib shifted his tone. Dramatically. "Get out of there. If she spots you-"

* * *

It had been the smallest reflection, so small in fact that the average Irken would not have seen it, but an Irken like The Empress, who had trained herself over the years to be hyperaware of her surroundings, picked it up in her peripheral vision. A trio of thick water and sewer pipes as fat around as a man spanned from the concrete floor to the ceiling in one corner of the sublevel, and it was there that she saw him, crouched behind one, his elbow partially visible, along with a wedge shaped segment of his helmet.

Who was he? She'd find out before she killed him.

"What here," She told Hussein.

"I could run away," He said.

She looked at him. "I run fast." Then she slipped off, away from the truck, hugging the wall behind them. Chen Ji had given her a combat vest and web gear whose pockets hung heavy with grenades. She reached the corner of the garage opposite the pipes and tugged free a grenade.

"Don't move!" Came a shout from behind the pipes.

An American. Damn, they'd caught up to her. It seemed Patti had done nothing to thwart their efforts.

"Who are you?" She cried in English.

"I'm the guy who's going to capture you! Stand down!"

She squinted toward the pipes as he came around with his rifle trained on her.

"Okay, okay," She said.

Then she pulled the pin on her grenade, let it fly, and threw herself forward, onto the concrete.

He fired, the rounds striking near her arm and leg as she kept rolling, knowing that his targeting computer would have to keep recalculating if she just kept moving.

She thought he'd be faster, but he wasn't. As he charged away from the pipes, trying to keep tight to the long, concrete wall, the grenade exploded in a magnesium white flash, echoing in great thunderclaps down the tunnel and throughout the rest of the garage.

The pipes immediately raptured, water whooshing and jetting as the soldier in the high tech combat suit dove to the floor.

She found it odd that he wasn't wearing a helmet. Her bullet didn't care either way. It left her pistol and nicked the back of his head. A close shot but not a kill. His hand went up to the wound.

Holding her breath, she took off, but a massive puddle now separated her and the soldier. She could barely keep her footing and would up throwing herself down, onto her gut, and sliding across the wet concrete, firing three times at the soldier as he tried to turn and bring his rifle around.

She caught him in the arm, the abdomen, and the hand, but his armor held true.

He was a breath away from firing when she adjusted her aim and finally shot him in the head, the blood spraying across the back wall.

Gasping for air, she rose, rushed to him leaned down and pulled the blood covered headset off, slipped it on, and tried to see what he saw.

"Unauthorized user," Came a voice in her antenna. "Shutting down..." She ripped off the headset and threw it across the floor.

Hussein was still waiting for her. She hurried to him and was joined by a trio of Chen Ji's men, who'd handed the medic a weapon and had hear the explosion.

They all helped Chopra into the lift. She radioed to Chen Ji and told him what happened. They needed to move the cargo trucks to the secondary tunnel. He agreed. The Empress climbed into the driver's seat and threw the lift in gear. Meanwhile, behind her, the three men jumped into the trucks and followed her down the tunnel.

The original plan had been to extract the gold from the main vault beneath the Almas Tower and move it underground to the Silver Tower. From there, they'd make their above ground exit to escape. Now the Americans were aware of that. They'd have to move directly up from Almas.

She called Patti, updated her on the situation. The women told her not to worry, that the Euros were doing, as she put it, a splendid job.

* * *

Schoolie's avatar flashed red with a warning that he had no vital signs. A secondary message indicated that his communications and command unit had been locked down because of unauthorized use.

As Lakota threw the Tigr in gear, Dib called up to Schleck and Riggs. "Get to the Silver Tower, fourth level. We've lost Schoolie. She's got to be down there."

"Roger that," Answered Schleck.

Poor Schoolie. How many times had he busted Dib's chops, only to beg for a place on this mission? The irony could not be more bitter.

"Look at that! They're cutting us off!" Cried Lakota.

Two European gunships's had returned from the airport area to launch missiles on the bridges spanning the canal. There were four bridges in all, and they were targeting three, blasting away gaping sections that fell in an eerie slow motion toward the bubbling white water.

Dib called up the map and nodded in understanding: They were not striking the bridge directly opposite the Almas Tower.

"Check it out," He told Lakota, sharing his HUD with her.

"I see it."

The Euros were either creating an escape route for The Empress or attempting to funnel Tuvia's forces into a single approach. Perhaps both, Dib thought with a deep sigh.

He stole a quick glance at the camera images captured bu Schleck and Riggs; they were rushing down the stairs.

Then he switched to the other teams, who had moved about a kilometer up Sheikh Zayed Road and maintained their observation posts, along with several squads of Tuvia's men. Copeland was zooming in with his camera to reveal a dozen or so of Tuvia's men rushing onto the main highway to launch upgraded versions of the rocket propelled grenades at a pair of oncoming Tarrs. Just as the Prokofiev Delta combatants launched, the entire group dispersed in all directions; it was the strangest retreat Dib had ever seen- nothing orderly about it, as though each man were crawling with ants.

Then it dawned on him.

The Euros were using their microwave weapons, and Dib's stomach turned as the men fell to the ground, swelling like balloons as the water and blood in their bodies came to a boil and their skin began to separate like sausages being overcooked.

"Lieutenant, are you seeing this?" Asked Copeland.

"Yeah." Dib grunted. "I see it. Alpha? Bravo? Keep tight. Fall back on the tower. Do not engage. Do not get tagged. Go now!"

His people charged off, squads of Prokofiev Delta combatants in tow.

* * *

Chen Ji's team had placed wireless surveillance cameras the size of golf balls throughout the tunnel area and approach to the main vault. One of his men was monitoring those cameras via a notebook computer.

They reached am intersection where four tunnels met, and in the center lay a thick, tubular shaft within which sat a broad cargo elevator with heavy steel gates. This was how they got the gold into the vault, and this, The Empress grinned, was exactly how it was coming out.

The three truck drivers parked behind her, and Chen Ji ordered them to remain there on guard.

She leaned over to Chopra. "You need to get the elevator open for us. Just do it. Or I'll shoot the kid."

Two of Chen Ji's men carried Chopra from the forklift's wide seat and toward the elevator's control panel. Chopra looked weakly at her, then back to Hussein, who cried, "Just do it old man! We have no choice!"

Chopra placed his hand on the scanner pad. Nothing. Without power to trickle charge the backup batteries, they'd eventually lost their charge.

"There's no way in. The emergency generator is down in the vault," He said.

The Empress tore the lower panel off the biometric scanner station, exposing the batteries.

"How much power do we need?" She demanded.

"Twenty four volts DC," He told her.

She ordered Chen Ji's men to pull two batteries from the forklifts, wire them in series, and connect them in place of the panel's existing battery cables.

A moment after he touched it, the pad lit from beneath and light wiped across the screen. Then status display showed, _READING... AUTHENTICATING..._- And then-

_WELCOME, MANOJ CHOPRA. _

The wide doors slid open.

"You did the right thing," The Empress told him, as Chen's people carried him back to the lift. Only two forklifts at a time could fit in the elevator, so The Empress's and one other entered first.

They descended for a full thirty seconds until the elevator stopped with a series and hard clunks and thuds. The cage like doors creaked open. They drove into another access tunnel about forty meters long, only their forklift lights illuminating the way.

Next came security checkpoint number two: another pair of wide, blastproof doors beside which sat an empty, shielded security desk whose monitors flashed message about being in standby mode since they'd just been powered via the other terminal.

"I'm sorry, you have to get out again," Hussein said to Chopra.

This time the medic came rushing over and shouted at Chen Ji's other men as they carried the old man toward the interface panel. The medic was not pleased with all the moving of his patient.

Now Chopra had to place both hands on a glass top counter and stare directly into a screen that showed a digitized and lifelike image of himself, basically his avatar. A female computer voice, speaking in English with a British accent, instructed him not to blink. A light shone directly into one of his eyes, and then the computer said, "State your name."

Chopra took a deep breath.

"Please state your name."

"Manoj Chopra."

"Identity recognized. Welcome, Mr. Chopra. It appears you are experiencing a medical emergency. Should I call for medical assistance?"

"No."

"Very well, then. Access is granted."

The broad metallic doors slid open, and without delay they drove the forklifts through them, down yet one more tunnel that terminated at a wall of thick titanium bars, not unlike a prison. This was a conventional barrier opened with wither a set of four keys or another set of biometric measures. And just beyond the bars, about twenty meters away, was the final barrier between them and all that gold: a circular door three meters in diameter and framed in gleaming steel.

Chen Ji rushed up to The Empress. "Two soldiers moving down the tunnel. I want to lock the doors."

"We can't," She told him. "We'd need the old man to get them back open. Everything has to stay and remain open."

"Then we must move quickly. I will tell my men to suit up."

"You do that." She took hold of Chopra's arm. "We're almost finished, old man," She reassured him as they carried him up to the next panel.

He put his hand on the scanner, but then his head lolled to one side and his eyes rolled back in his head.

"Medic!" Screamed The Empress. "Medic!"

* * *

Lakota turned sharply down Jumeirah Beach Road, a thoroughfare running parallel to the wider highway and leading toward the remaining bride's off ramp. A pair of residential towers known as the Jewel loomed over them, they sky still flickering from explosions across the canal.

The roar of helicopters had Dib looking up, out of the open top hatch with no weapon, just as Lakota turned sharply, nearly tossing him onto the floor on the Tigrs troop compartment.

"The chopper's are back," She sand, her tone dark and sarcastic.

No one needed the arning, and that was her nerves talking, he understood. He wanted to scream himself as cannon fire from one chopper tore a jagged line across their hood- And that's when he and Lakota opened their doors and simultaneously bailed out, hitting the asphalt and rolling, the Tigr glided on and crashed into the concrete guard wall.

Behind them, Tuvia's Tigr, a modified version with the rear doors taken off, thicker armor, and donning both a DShKM with an AGS-30 automatic grenade launcher on the top hatch side by side, veered out of the cannon fire and came to a screeching halt beside them.

The passenger door swung open, and there was Tuvia, waving a hand and shouting, "Get in!"

Meanwhile, one of his men hopped down from the open rear door frames and shouldered a Javelin launcher looking weapon, the weapon utilized the same command and control locking system, but the tube system it was mounted to was completely different.

Dib did a double take. "What the hell is that?" He shouted as he climbed into the rear rear seat of the armored vehicle.

"We have a few new toys," Answered the Spec Ops Commander.

The combatant with the launcher pulled back the trigger, and three rockets exploded from the front of the tube in quick succession and locked onto one of the choppers. He wasted no time lugging the heavy launcher back to the Tigr as he climbed in.

Dib peered up past the open window and held his breath.

The gunship's tail rotor took the brunt of the impact as the first two rockets struck there, the third striking the engine's hull, the chopper began to rotate violently as smoke billowed from the engine, its tail rotor sheared off, hydraulic and fuel lines hanging down like leaking veins.

The bird sailed over their heads, and Dib turned back to watch as the European gunship collided with one of the towers in a spectacular explosion of fireballs filled with showering glass.

"Holy-"

Lakota's curse was drowned out as the main rotor sliced away at the building before snapping, one blade whipping end over end across the road not three meters behind them.

As they swung right, turning up toward the bridge proper, the man behind the wheel hit the brakes so hard that Dib and Lakota collided with the front seats as Tuvia put his hands on the dashboard. Before Dib could look up to see what hell was happening, Daugherty was hailing him. "Ghostex Lead, two Tarrs have pushed through and are setting up a barricade on the other side of the bridge. They're cutting you off, sir!"

"Ghostex Lead, it's Schleck. Riggs and I are down in the tunnel. We found Schoolie, sir."

"I can see that," Dib answered, checking their camera broadcasts in his HUD.

"She was here, all right. They've set up some cameras, so we're being watched right now. Volker called me, and he's already on his way. He'll jam the cameras and clear the path, sir."

"Roger that, get him on it. In the meantime, I need some fire on those Tarrs blocking my way. Daugherty? Copeland? Talk to me."

* * *

The boy was at Chopra's side, holding his hand now, as the medic tried to bring the old man back to consciousness. Chopra lay on his back, still unmoving, his chest barely rising and falling.

Unable to stand the frustration any longer, The Empress grabbed the boy's wrist and dragged him up and away, moving toward the scanner. "If you're a living key, then open the gate."

She slapped the boy's palm on the reader.

"Identity not recognized," Came the computer's voice.

She glowered at him. "Were you lying?"

The boy repositioned his palm on the reader. "No," He said. :But I told you, I don't have access to the vault itself, only to the computers inside. Chopra's the only one who can get us in there. I told you that!"

With a pair of keystrokes on the touchpad, The Empress reset the reader. "Try it one more time."

He did. Nothing.

She cursed, then shifted away from him and back toward the medic. "Lift him up. I need his hand on that scanner right now!"

"No good to move!"

"Lift him up!"

Chen Ji rushed over to the soldier monitoring the surveillance cameras, then came back to The Empress. "They've jammed the cameras. They're coming."

They propped the unconscious Chopra up and dragged him to the scanner, and The Empress worked him palm. But then Chopra began to wake up. He lifted his head and glanced over at The Empress, and in that moment, as the computer sensed his consciousness, the gate began to slide open on heavy rollers.

Not three seconds later, he fainted again.

"You can't get into the vault," Said Hussein. "Unless he wakes up."

"Come on, you old bastard," She muttered to him in Irken. "Just one more door."

* * *

"Sir, if you draw any closer, they'll hit you with the microwave. Don't do it, sir," Said Daugherty.

"Roger that," Answered Dib, and then he regarded Lakota. "We're getting out." He tapped Tuvia on the shoulder. "Tell your driver to stay here for now. Radio the rest of your troops. Tell them to fall back on the Almas Tower. The Euros landed north to divert your people away. Pretty simple diversion, so let's bring em' all back here."

"I agree, Dib," Said Tuvia.

Dib and Lakota hopped out of the modified Tigr and crossed to the rear, where several large hard cases containing more of the triplet rocket launchers had been stored. The combatant who'd taken down the chopper was wide eyed and breathless, still overjoyed by the excellent shot and ready to fire again. Dib and Lakota would oblige him.

"Lieutenant, I've got some news for you," Began Copeland.

"Not now," Dib snapped. "I'll be right with you."

"I think you need to see this," Insisted Copeland.

before Dib could refocus his attention on his HUD, twin flashes of light came from across the canal, from somewhere along the main highway south of the bridge. And then he saw them: two dark pinks missiles with green sparks flying out the back of them were racing toward the Tarrs, and suddenly, as soon as they were launched, they struck the pair of vehicles on the other side of the bridge.

Lakota was swearing in surprise as the missiles struck a one two punch to the armored vehicles, both of which lifted off the ground and blew apart, as thought they'd been detonated from within.

"Cavalry's arrived," She said, now dumbfounded.

Secondary explosions lifted more debris in the air as the popcorn popping of ammo cooking off rose through echoing booms. More pieces of the Tarrs rocketed back up through the smoke trails left by the missiles, and turned toward the origin of fire.

But something was off about the green flames that triggered the Tarrs destruction.

"Let's see who you are," Dib zoomed in and saw a convoy of six armored vehicles, DMOV-3 Light Anti Tank Vehicles, along with a man standing in the turret top cupola of an ND-II tank rumbling in the lead. All bearing that ugly mark on the sides of their armor plating...

Dib's jaw went slack.

"Ghostex Lead, are you there?" Called Copeland. "They just took out the Tarrs, but they're heading your way."

Dib turned toward Lakota, and she said the name before he could.

"Storr."

(End Chapter)


	24. Chapter 23

"It is a sad realization that the people who cannot kill will always be subject to those who can." - Unknown

* * *

Chapter Twenty Three

**Almas Tower**

**Business District, Dubai **

Dib zoomed in once more on the convoy trundling toward the tower. There were no more epithets to express his feelings; he'd exhausted them all.

Storr's group was the same force Tuvia's recon elements had reported moving up from the south. The Irken and his cronies had encountered some resistance, as the dents from RPG fire in that ND-II told. That Storr did not wear a combat suit or other radiation protection suggested his plans were brief: capture The Empress and go home.

Gee, that plan sounded strangely familiar.

"Irkens," Dib finally said, glancing toward Tuvia.

Tuvia's expression grew dark, the fire in his eyes sparking, and in that moment, Dib saw it; that pure hate for their kind.

"If he's trying to keep low key," Dib began. "He's failing miserably."

"Maybe he doesn't care," Said Tuvia. "They're trying to capture a rogue, one of their own, and I know you already know that. They have nothing to hide right now, do they?"

Dib shrugged. "I bet High Com saw them coming, but they couldn't tip us off."

"That;s about all he could do without turning this into an even bigger fiasco," Said Lakota.

"We have to wait now," Tuvia warned. "After they pass, we can go. If they spot us, we will be sitting dogs."

"Ducks," Said Lakota.

The Spec Ops Commander frowned at her. "That's what I said."

* * *

Chen Ji tugged at The Empress's shoulder as she leaned over and watched the medic trying to revive Chopra.

"The Americans are in the tunnels," Said the Spec Ops Captain. "Three so far. They just jammed the cameras. Intercepted transmission indicates more on the way with Russian Special Forces."

She wrenched around and grabbed him by the neck. "Tell your men to kill them!" Then she shoved him back and away.

He glowered at her for a moment, glanced down at his sidearm, then put a hand to his earpiece, his expression shifting. "You need to suit up." He lifted his head at Chopra and Hussein. "My men will help them, too..."

"We open the vault first!" She cried.

He muttered something in Chinese and rushed off.

Chopra stirred, his eyes fluttering open. She yelled at the medic, ordering him to lift Chopra and carry him to the final access panel built into the wall beside the main vault door.

Gunfire began booming in the distance.

"They're coming," Gasped Hussein.

* * *

Chopra saw the boy ascending to the throne like an angel, wings spread as he turned to face the crowds and then, finally, inevitably, as perfect and correct as the moment could be, he took a seat on the golden chair and smiled, all of the hope in his heart spreading out in waves across the millions who'd gathered, their faces stretching into the farthest reaches of the desert, their voices a steady hum, like an electrical current coursing through the universe.

And his father was there, too, standing beside the bike he'd given Chopra. "Your like has been remarkable, and I am very proud of you."

His mother and sisters were there, beckoning, even as an evil being growled in his ear, "Wake up, old man. One more. Come on. This is it!"

Computer voices. His hand on something.

A light in his eye.

A prick to his finger.

And then the comforting thump of his heartbeat and the words _I am still here _echoing. Abruptly, the heavy clunking of the vault door jarred him as the ground began to shake. He told himself he was submitting to her, if only to keep the boy alive. "Hussein?" He called. "Hussein?"

* * *

The armored transport drivers working with Storr's Elite team maneuvered all four DMOVs into blocking positions of the tower's four parking garage entrances. They placed the ND-II I-MBT on the main road facing north, toward Tuvia's oncoming forces, and the main gun had already boomed twice, those rounds targeting Tuvia's forces, as best Dib could tell without the satellite uplink.

Strangely enough, the DMOVs had quad barrel anti aircraft guns, but not one of them was shooting at the European choppers, and that fact gave Dib pause. Why would the Irkens not target the Euros... Unless they were now working together? And if they were, who had arranged that temporary alliance- even after Storr had taken out those Tarrs?

The Irkens did have the European economy under their thumb, so perhaps this was blackmail or coercion of sorts. Dib could only imagine the Russian assault on the Irkens, having one of them fighting beside you one moment, the next his barrel is down your throat. Whatever the case, the fact remained that Dib had to get past both the Irkens and the Euros to reach his target.

He, Lakota, and Tuvia crossed the bridge over the canal, but as they turned onto one of the side roads to reach the main highway, incoming plasma splashed and ripped up the road in front of them. Ah, the DMOVs weren't targeting the choppers; no, they were targeting them.

Tuvia's driver floored it as the tri rocket guy considered firing his rockets while still hanging out the back of the Tigr. Lakota hollered at the maniac: The back blast would kill them all- but he kept trying to swing out and shift the weapon so the blast would be directed outside.

"Hold fire, you fool!" Shouted Dib.

He wasn't sure if the Russian understood English, but Dib's tone and expression were hopefully enough.

"Ghostex Lead, this is Schleck," Called the sniper.

Dib immediately saw Schleck's point of view; it appeared he was pinned down, stealing glimpses around a corner. Ahead lay a long, dark tunnel. As Schleck leaned forward, gunfire sparked along the wall, driving him back.

"I see it, Schleck. Start gassing them out, but you move in slow. Buy us some time. They're sealing off the main tower entrances."

"Get around them and go in through the Silver Tower," Said Schleck. "We'll flush them toward the exit. Grid test shows they've restored power to the vault security system down here."

"Okay, that's the plan, buddy. Flush them toward the Silver Tower. You hang in there. We're on our way."

"Dib, it's me," Said Volker, his camera image appearing now in Dib's HUD. He was behind Riggs. Gunfire boomed in the background. "I'm jamming these local cameras, but I busted through the encryption being used by the Euros outside. They want to engage the Irken Elites, but they've just been ordered to hold fire."

"Surprise, surprise. Keep listening. You hear anything I need to know about, you call me a-sap. And while you're at it, see if you can break through and get a message back home. Try every satellite you can find."

"Roger that, sir. I already have been trying. And sir, those Irkens are coming in here... They wouldn't be the same guys that killed my brother, would they?"

Dib took a deep breath... And lied.

* * *

The Empress finished donning her helmet, then made sure Hussein's fir properly. They'd known they'd face resistance and assumed chemical weapons would be used against them, tear gas and other less than lethal agents at the very least. Their suits were expertly fashioned copies of the US Military advanced MOPP gear prototype number six and not unlike the ones being used by the Americans trying to stop them.

"Where's Chopra's suit?" Asked the boy, his voice coming through the helmet's speaker via the open team channel.

"Forget it," She answered, grabbing the kid by the arm as the forklifts rolled into the vault behind her.

Light shone across long metal tables piled high with gold bricks that had been carefully stacked on reinforced metal pallets. She felt as though she'd entered an ancient Egyptian tomb sans the art and statues, replaced by hedgerows of gold within which you could get lost. The brilliance of all those bricks collected in one place and stretching out for dozens of meters was quite breathtaking, even for someone as stoic as The Empress.

Chen's men couldn't help themselves either, taking just a moment to marvel over the bricks and shout a few words of excitement to each other before sliding their forklifts into position to lift and haul away the pallets. Once loaded, the two lifted began whirling out of the vault.

Meanwhile, she and the boy walked thirty meters to the back, where several computers had been positioned in a corner desk area whose walls were covered by old fashioned paper maps, mostly terrain maps of various parts of the Middle East. She called in two of Chen's men with batteries and power converter to jump start one of the computers. They finished their job within a minute, and the computer began to boot up.

She shoved the boy forward, then yanked a data key from her pocket. "Show me what I want and copy it here."

The boy took a seat, pillowed his hands across the back of his helmeted head, and kicked his feet up onto the desk. "All right, bitch, it's time you listen to me..."

Before she could react, a voice cracked over the team radio. "Hello, Jul, are you there? I know you're busy making a little withdraw, but I think you and I need to talk."

The Empress closed her eyes and willed herself to burst into flames. Nothing happened. She looked up.

The kid rasied his brows.

Storr called again: "Jul, I've killed five of your Chinese friends. Don't make me kill any more. I've got this building sealed off. You can't get out."

"Watch me," She growled.

He laughed under his breath. "I know why you're here and what you're doing. Do you think Tak or the Tallests can pay me more than what's in that vault?"

"Of course not."

"Then let me help you,"

"You're lying. You'll turn me back over to them."

"Come on, Jul. You know me. We're both opportunists. Let's you and I seize the day. I'm the only one who can get you out of here. Not this pathetic team they gave you. I have the firepower. And afterward we can sip champagne- just like the old days."

"We never did that."

"We should have."

She stood there, wanting to call Patti. Prokofiev Delta was supposed to take care of Storr. They'd obviously failed, and now she was forced to deal with him. He'd killed five of her men and gained access to their communications, which put them at another disadvantage. She had a decision to make.

The boy looked at her. "Are you going to talk to him or me?"

"Shut up."

"No, _you _shut up! You're going to deal with me. I want a suit for Chopra! If you don't get me a suit right now, I'll smash these computers!"

She removed her pistol and shot him in the leg-

Before he even had time to take another breath and utter another word.

Bang. A bullet had struck the armor plating in his suit and ricocheted off, but the impact would give him a terrible bruise.

He wailed and nearly fell out of the chair.

She turned her scorching gaze on him. "Get on that computer and get me what I want! I _will _kill you!"

He scrambled forward and began typing on the wireless key panel. He slid off a glove for fingerprint authentication, received it, issued a voice command, was identified, then, finally, gained access.

* * *

"Oh, no," Riggs was saying as she whirled to find six fully suited Irken Elites standing behind her. She faced forward, where five Chinese troops were doing likewise.

Schleck was screaming, as was Volker.

And Dib watched it all happen in HUD as Tuvia's driver raced toward the Silver Tower.

The woman Dib remembered looking so ravishing the night they had gone to the Tour de France party did the only thing she could do.

She opened fire on the Chinese guys, then spun back and fired on the Irkens.

She didn't last long.

Of the dozens of plasma bolts fired at her, only a few needed to find the seams in her armor.

She shouted, "I'm sorry, Ghostex Lead. I tried my best."

And then her avatar flashed red and the camera image of her helmet showed the wall. She lay there, unmoving. The voices came: _We've lost Riggs! We've lost Riggs! _

The reports swirled in Dib's head and never took hold, all of them unreal for just a moment and then finally, inevitably, they registered as a cold shock to the system.

Suddenly, Riggs's helmet camera swiveled to an image of another Irken, now wearing a helmet of his own; it was Storr. He was staying a while after all. He muttered something in Irken to the Elite behind him, then dropped Riggs's head with a thump. The camera shook. With a finger gesture, Dib closed the window, took a deep breath, and tried to calm himself, his gloved hands balling repeatedly into fists.

That opportunity lasted all of two seconds before the whomping of a chopper sounded from behind them, and before Dib could scream his warning, a rocket detonated not three meters behind the modified Tigr, causing the driver to loose control, smash into the retaining wall, rebound, then hit the opposite wall, even as cannon fire stitched a lone through the top of the armored vehicle.

A round struck the driver and blood splattered over Dib's visor as he hollered for everyone to bail out. The Tigr had slowed to about twenty miles per hour when he hit the concrete, dropped, rolled, and came up with his rifle. Lakota was beside him, as was Tuvia, who took a hard fall but assured them he was okay. The operator with the tri-launcher jogged off, found a position to his liking, then lifted his weapon to the sky. He shouted something in Russian drowned out by the din of motors, and then the entire highway turned pure white as the rockets streaked away.

Dib craned his head to follow all three rockets directory, even though trying to do so proved to be a tad bit difficult. The birds homed in on the chopper, but this time the gunship's pilot launched electronic countermeasures- white hot chaff that bloomed like a cloud of metallic confetti. The rockets punched into the chaff and streaked on by, losing their lock on the chopper and then flying skyward for a second or two before heaving into a thundering explosion.

"Come on, let's go!" Dib cried, waving them down the road as the chopper banked at a steep angle, then turned its guns northward and opened fire a few blocks down from the tower.

More flashes came from behind the skyscrapers, and the thought of Tuvia's men being mowed down by the Euros made Dib's skin crawl. He and the others were only a quarter kilometer from the ample cover of the high rises, and they ran hard and fast but dropped Tuvia quickly. The man could not keep up, when he said he had been fine from the bail out, it turned out he had injured his knee, and Lakota went back to assist him while Dib and the launcher guy hit the wall of the nearest skyscraper, the Goldcrest Executive Tower, which stood just beside the Almas.

Shifting furtively and almost not wanting to do so, Dib reached the corner of the building and stole a glance. The DMOV was sitting there like a pit bull on all fours, big guns lowered and pointed directly at him. Two dismounts hunkered down on either side of the vehicle, while the driver sat forward, his hatch open.

Yes, the long way around was through the Silver Tower tunnel, but at least they wouldn't have to face Storr's buddies. Dib checked the WAN uplink and dreamed of having Colonel Oliver call in an air strike, something, anything, to ward off these wolves.

"Ghostex Lead, this is Remus," Called Volker. "Euros just got orders to provide air cover and escort to any vehicles leaving the tower area, including the Irken DMOVs. You believe that?"

"She's got the Euros and Irkens working for her. And no, I don't believe it," Dib answered.

Volker's camera switched on, and Dib saw that the man had taken up a position behind some kind of maintenance section with large machinery.

"Where are you?" Dib asked.

"I'm moving closer to the vault. We're thinking if I can cut the main power, we can lock her inside."

"Providing they're already in."

"It's worth a shot, sir."

"Do it."

Tuvia and Lakota came up behind them. Tuvia paused a moment to take both a radio call and a cell phone call from his men. When he was finished he looked up gravely. "My company has suffered 27% combat casualties. I'm sorry, Dib. An imminent retreat must be called-" Tuvia stopped himself a moment. "Unless-" He stopped himself there and walked off a few feet.

Dib took a long breath and closed his eyes.

And there, of course, was Torque, with his Corvette burning behind them.

The punk shook his head. _"You know, you didn't have to any of this. No one cares. You didn't make anything right by joining the Military. You thought you could get rid of me. But I keep coming back. You wanna race?"_

_"NO!"_

_"Now you feel bad that you got Tuvia into a fight you can't win."_

_"I did."_

_"What do you want, Dib?"_

_"I want her."_

_"No, I mean what do you want in your life?"_

_"To get rid of you..." _

Torque smirked. _"Joining the Military didn't fix that. And you think getting her will solve all your problems?"_

_"I never said that."_

_"No, but you've been thinking it. Deep down. You've been telling yourself that if you get her, then maybe you're done. You'll just retire. Maybe teach. But you've done enough. Paid your bill. And I'll go away."_

_"Yeah."_

_"And what if that doesn't happen? Then what?"_

_"I don't know..."_

* * *

Chopra lifted his head enough to see the computer screens in front of Hussein. The maps were complex, commissioned and produced by geologists working for the family, while others showed locations of the hidden oil reserves. Two were above ground, while a third was submerged within the Strait itself and carefully disguised.

The boy was giving her everything. Had Chopra placed too much faith in the goodness of the world? Probably. But did he have any other choice? Some would argue that he did. Admittedly, he'd listened to his heart.

He knew no other way.

"Hussein," He gasped. "What's that smell?"

"Shut up, old man!" Cried The Empress, standing over the boy's shoulder. "You'll go to sleep soon.

"Upload's complete," Hussein said, handing something to The Empress.

"Let's go," She snapped. "We wait up top until they finish loading."

"No, I'm not leaving," He said. "I'm staying with him."

The Empress drew back her shoulders, and for a moment, Chopra thought she would shoot the poor boy. "I told you to come with me."

"No!"

She raised her pistol, thought it over, muttered something under her breath, then took off, running.

"Hussein, come here," Said Chopra.

The boy limped over and took Chopra's hand. "I'm sorry for what I did." His voice muffled by his helmet, so Chopra had to prick up his ears.

"You're hurt?"

"Only a bruise. She shot my armor."

"Listen to me. I want to tell you about the dreams your father had for this country, for our country. We don't have much time, and I want to share them with you."

Hussein began to weep. "I should have listened to you."

"It's not too late."

"She has all the gold. The oil."

"But she hasn't escaped yet. I know they're coming for her. So it's not too late."

"Okay."

Chopra took a deep breath that hurt. "Your father drove me out to the desert one afternoon. We walked one hour away from the car, and then he lifted his hands to the sky and said, 'Manoj, when I close my eyes I don't see the sand anymore. I see an empire.'"

(End Chapter)


	25. Chapter 24

"Are you certain this is not something we have dreamed, Comrades?" - Russian bombardment survivor

* * *

Chapter Twenty Four

**Almas Tower**

**Business District, Dubai **

"Ghostex Lead. this is Daugherty. I've taken my squad along the south side of the tower, moving toward the Silver one, but take a look at this..."

The image appeared in Dib's HUD, and Daugherty zoomed in. Through the somewhat grainy green of night vision came a flash that lit up a group of combatants hunkered down near a small bridge facing one of the Almas Tower's garages. The combatants, about ten or twelve, were dressed in all dark colors and wearing heavy gear. Daugherty panned to show that they were trading fire with one of the Irken DMOV crews and two Elite troopers.

"Can't ID them yet," Daugherty continued, "But they're laying down some nice fire on the Irkens."

"Storr's got somebody on his tail. His enemies are our friends," Said Dib.

"And that's not all of them, sir. Two other squads just showed up. Got about thirty or forty of them now."

"Do what you can to make contact. Let's see who they are. Offer to hire them. You know the drill."

"Roger that. Money talks, sir. Just be careful when you come around.

"Dib," Tuvia called.

Dib turned around to face Tuvia before he spoke.

"They're GRU Vympel, they're here to collect The Empress."

"Whoever they are, let's just hope they can help. Come on."

Lakota took point this time, leading them around the other side of the building. When they reached the corner, she checked the area, then gave the signal. They darted across the street, reached the next building, and traversed the shadows beside it, and then Dib leapfrogged past her to the next corner. From there he spied the Silver Tower.

"Ghostex Lead, are you there, over?"

Wait," Dib called as a window opened in his HUD. "I'm here, buddy, what do you got?"

Schleck had tucked himself into a narrow maintenance hallway running adjacent to one of the vault tunnels. "I'm hidden here,"He whispered into his microphone- even though they probably couldn't hear him. "Volker's right behind me."

Forklifts weighed down heavily with gold bricks hummed on by, one after another. Dib counted four in all, and he couldn't believe how many bricks they were hauling out of there. Just seeing gold piled up that way was surreal; the pallets might as well be props from a movie set.

"This is the third trip already," Said Schleck. "If you guys don't get down here soon, they'll get away with all of it. They're making very good progress, up and down the elevator and back again."

"I hear you, Schleck. Just sit tight, man. You're doing a great job."

Just as Dib had finished talking with Schleck over the radio, Tuvia rushed up behind him, radio in hand, as he tapped him on the shoulder. "Dib, my man cannot establish an uplink with any of the satellites, but I've just had contact with the _Chesma_."

A new data window opened in Dib's HUD. Captain Ikashanko stood on the ship's bridge, rubbing his lightly bearded chin in thought. "Lieutenant, are you there? I'm afraid I've only got audio contact on my end. Video is breaking up."

"I'm here, sir, and sir? I could use a favor."

"Better make it a quick one. We're being called out to assist an assault on an Irken destroyer."

"All right, here's what I have in mind..."

* * *

The Empress marched forward with Chen Ji to her right, another of his Special Forces Sergeants to her left. They moved directly toward Storr, who was approaching with a trio of his Elites, their weapons leveled on her.

"Stop right there," She told him. "Take off your helmet."

"Why, Jul, what is this? Don't you trust me?"

She shook her head.

He grinned.

And Lucifer himself had taught Storr how to smile.

As he removed his helmet, she did the same, her holographic disguise fizzling away, and Chen Ji looked at her. The gas canisters that had been ignited by the Americans were still billowing, but they were at the far end of the tunnel. The air was still clean, but not for much longer.

"You come with me and my trucks. I want all of your men. There will be a ship waiting for us at Mina Jebel Ali, far south side of the port. Order your driver to head back to the airport." She checked her watch. "In about ten minutes a Chinese cargo plane will touch down. You have them drive right onto the plane. I'll make sure it's arranged."

Storr chuckled under his breath. "Jul, it sounds like you have been planning this all along.

"You always have two escape routes," She said with a smirk. "What I didn't plan on was _you." _

At that moment, she whirled, and knowing exactly where to aim, she put a bullet in Chen Ji's neck and another in the Sergeant's. Both men dropped, gasping. Storr's Elites advanced on them and confiscated their dog tags, a type of trophy for them. She spun back to the Elite Commander. "Tell your men to kill the rest of them when they're finished loading."

"So you prove your loyalty."

"And you prove yours. It's me and you. No one else, okay?" She raised an antennae.

Storr nodded.

"Let's go."

Without warning the concrete floor began to rumble, and what sounded like a violent earthquake began to rip through the tunnel. A crack splintered up the wall ahead, growing into multiple veins and arteries, and then chunks of rock began falling away even as Storr cried out to his men in Irken and all of them sprinted on wobbly legs.

A pair of thunderclaps struck, followed by another pair, and then she realized what was happening.

* * *

Dib, Lakota, Tuvia, and the launcher guy, who had since abandoned his weapon and traded it for a light machine gun, had reached the entrance to the Silver Tower's parking garage- all of ten seconds before the first pair of Ch-82 Zinka Ballistic Missiles launched from the _Chesma _struck the Goldcrest tower, blasting off huge sections that came raining down in a horrific storm of glass, concrete, insulation, and supports struts.

The Irkens in the DMOV below never saw it coming.

And as they vanished beneath the massive pile of debris, a second pair of Zinkas struck the Lake Terrace Tower rising just north of the Almas. The missiles hammered into the skyscraper about two thirds of the way up and exploded with such force that a portion of the remaining third simply fell away.

And all the while Tuvia was talking to the crew aboard _Chesma _as he watched via pre set up observation areas. Because they were all tied into the same tactical network of situational awareness, Tuvia had been able to stream his video of the targets back to the ship's control room. With his artillery men's help, he'd passed along four critical points on the buildings that would result in the desired effects.

"That's two, we got two," He told them. "They're buried good; outstanding work, gentlemen!"

The south and north parking lot entrances to the Almas Tower were now successfully blocked, and two of the six DMOVs had been taken out of the fight, buried beneath tons of debris. That was no cause for a victory party, but Dib was damned pleased.

"Gotta love Russian fire power." Lakota said.

Tuvia nodded as he stood up, chest out like a hero over the city, head faced toward the gaping holes in the buildings.

"Tuvia," Dib began. "Can you back us up with a few squads? I can't do it without you. Here come my guys now."

Tuvia nodded and turned away to call his men.

Div waved Daugherty, Copeland, Heston, Pak, and Noboru into the parking garage. They gathered around him.

"Destroy the other exits," He ordered. "If she tries to come out through this tower, I want this to be her only way out."

"Have composition four plastic explosives, will travel," Said Heston. "We're on it, sir."

"She's still got two other exits via Almas," Lakota pointed out.

"Yeah, but those GRU Vympel guys are keeping the DMOV crews busy over there," Said Dib. He faced Daugherty. "You dig up any dirt on them?"

"I got in close enough to examine one of their dead, pulled his mask, took a picture. But there's still no uplink to run his ID..."

"All right, we'll get to that later. But for now, we'll take all the free help we can get."

"Ghostex Lead, you better hurry," Said Schleck. "They've cleared the vault area. I think the last of the forklifts is in the elevator now."

* * *

They boy was talking to him and crying, but Chopra could barely sense him through all the cold. There was no fear, only growing sense of calm like a soft wind blowing in his ears. He reached out, took his father's hand, and felt the calluses of a man who had toiled all his life. That was what love felt like. His father smiled, and there was pride in that grin.

Chopra smiled now at Hussein, who had made a promise to continue his father's dream.

There was one more breath coming. One more.

Chopra took it.

* * *

When they reached the cargo trucks, The Empress nodded in satisfaction at the sight of the dead Chinese Special Forces troops with missing tags. Storr's Elites had dispatched them with precision. Had there been any doubt? After all, Storr's troops were Irken.

The bad news was that they'd lost two of Storr's vehicles. They still had the tank and the four remaining DMOVs. She hesitated before climbing into the cap of one of the cargo trucks loaded with gold. "You drive the lead truck. I pull up the rear," She told Storr. "I'll tell you where to go."

"As always," He said with a sigh.

Just then he got a report from one of his troops: A missile had struck their heavy ND-II. Now it was out of the fight, too. He cursed in Irken.

As did The Empress. Her original plan had two trucks going to the airport, two going to the ship. The idea was to split the gold so that any opponents would believe that one shipment was a diversion, when in fact both were hot and at least one should be able to escape. She'd never disclosed that to Patti, who, of course, wanted all of the gold, but fifty percent of something was better than nothing.

But, of course, they'd lost a truck and had overloaded the remaining three. The DMOVs had room enough to carry the gold and were much better protected, but she feared that wasting any more time to make a transfer might result in their being trapped.

Were she an American Special Forces leader, what would she assume? Well, the smart money had the gold inside the better protected vehicles. So she had to hope they'd go after the DMOVs. That made sense. Thus, they'd send out the armor first. The cargo plane landing at the airport would also raise suspicions.

"Can you get the choppers outside to cover the DMOVs when they leave?" She asked Storr.

"Tak has put me in direct contact with the Enforcers Corps Commander," He answered. "I've never seen such an efficient piece of blackmail."

"Good. Do it."

"I will, but first, I'm putting those chopper's on the entrances. Your friends from the Vympel have become a wart on my ass."

She rolled her eyes. "Thanks for that image."

"Anytime."

* * *

With their rifles at the ready and targeting data streaming across their HUDs, Dib and his team hustled their way through the garage and down toward the main tunnel that would take them over to the Almas Tower. Tuvia remained up top to meet the two squads he had called over.

When they were halfway through the tunnel, the Spec Ops Commander called to say that the choppers were gunning down the Vympel combatants opposite the east and west entrances, and it seemed likely that Dib's target would exit from one of those areas because the choppers were clearing the path.

Dib could hear all the booming above and feel it in his legs. He told Tuvia to get as many vehicles as he could near those exits. Once the choppers neutralized the Vympel elements, only Tuvia's men could slow down The Empress's escape, while Dib and his Ghostex Team came in from behind.

Schleck and Volker cracked in. They'd slipped into the main vault area for a quick recon, and Volker's camera picked up a figure wearing an environment suit and kneeling over an old man whom Dib quickly recognized as Manoj Chopra. He used a finger to gesture to widen the data box and watch as Volker confronted the figure, who turned out to be Hussein.

"We're not here to hurt you," Said the Phoenix.

"I know," Answered the boy, his accent distinctly British. "Where are you taking me?"

"Someplace safe."

"What about him?"

"We'll come back when we can. Later..."

"Get him through the Silver Tower," Dib ordered. "I'm charging both of you with keeping him safe. That's royalty right there. Do you guys read me?"

"Yes, sir," Said Volker.

"Don't worry, Lieutenant," Added Schleck. "This kid's got the best body guards in town. Moving out now."

"Dib, it's Tuvia! The choppers are backing off and the DMOVs are coming out! Four of them now, turning up toward the highway. Still small arms fire from a few stragglers, but they're getting away."

"Schleck, did she load the gold into the DMOVs?" Dib asked the sniper.

"Sir, I'm not sure. She's still got three cargo trucks, but I'm still trying to pinpoint their locations."

"Dib, it's Tuvia again. One of my teams up near the airport says a cargo plane just touched down. It's military, unmarked though."

"She'd got gold in the DMOVs, and they're heading to the airport. Everyone, turn around, we're getting the hell out of here! We need to get back up top! Tuvia, is _Chesma _still available?"

"Negative, Dib."

Dib cursed. "Lakota, still no uplink?"

"Nothing. I've got a loop set to alert us the second we break the jamming."

"Dib, some of the Euro armor is now moving in behind the DMOVs, escorting them, and they've got the choppers covering by air. That was to be her."

"Tuvia, what do you have in between here and the airport? Anything that can stop her?"

"I'm sorry, Dib. My armored columns are still waiting on Kish."

"Can your guys at the airport at least attack the plane?"

"I'll see what I can do."

A new window opened in Dib's HUD: His laser based radar system (LADAR) had detected movement behind them, about a thousand meters back. The image revealed three contacts growing more distinct: the cargo trucks. Whatever people she'd left behind were probably making their escapes as well.

Not five seconds later they came under heavy plasma fire as headlights wiped into view and reached up the tunnel toward them.

Lakota screamed to take cover.

Dib threw himself toward the wall, dropping down and rolling back up with his rifle to fire on the lead vehicle as it roared by with an Irken hanging out the cab window and firing a steady stream of bolts.

The second truck roared by, and Dib ordered the others to hold fire-

He was blinded for a moment by the truck's headlights, and then his mouth fell open.

He'd just caught a glimpse of the third truck's driver. She might be wearing a suit and a helmet, but he recognized those eyes. He'd studied them for too many hours.

Perhaps the gold was being shipped out on the DMOVs, but Jul Mik'hini, The Empress, had another route in mind.

"Get on!" He screamed.

He and Lakota raced behind the last truck and launched themselves into the air, groping futilely for some purchase. They both tumbled to the ground as the exhaust washed over them. Lakota rolled up with a grenade, about to throw it, when Dib looked down and saw them. Four more plasma grenades rolling toward them like baseballs, lobbed by the Irkens in the trucks.

It was all he could do to turn around and throw himself back when the explosions tore though the tunnel in magnificent blue balls of super heated, energized plasma, and the blast wave lifted him from the ground.

* * *

Chen Ji's men had not reported any more Americans in the tunnel, and The Empress had felt the breath escape her as they roared by. That Storr's Elites had dropped a handful of plasma grenades before the Americans could throw theirs was just luck, and as the booms echoed and the blue explosions flickered in her side mirror, she called up to Storr and told him how lucky they were.

As they reached the uppermost level, he reported that all three exits had been sealed off by explosions and debris, and only one path was available; it would no doubt be defended.

"Call off one of those choppers," She told him. "Wait, no. Just blast on through."

"Are you sure? One of my Lieutenants says two squads outside. Looks like only small arms, but we will take a lot of fire, maybe an RPG or something bigger."

"You're right. Stop here. Call the chopper. Put some fire on those guys outside. Clear us a path."

He pulled to a screeching halt, as did the truck behind him. They were at the far end of the garage, ground level, and out in the darkness she saw the shadows move- Prokofiev operators waiting for them... Or maybe even more GRU Vympel.

She glanced over at the Elite sitting beside her, a young, lean, dark blue eyed Irken, those eyes seemingly vacant. "Where are you from?" She asked him in Irken.

He just frowned.

"Do I offend you?"

"We all know who you are. You betrayed the Empire. Our job is to bring you in. Storr has other plans. My orders are to follow him. So I do. But I do not have to like it, nor do I have to talk to you."

"Get out."

He looked at her.

"I said, _get out!_" She drew her pistol and shoved it into his neck, just below the helmet.

He opened the door, climbed out, jogged to the next truck, and was let inside.

"Okay, three more minutes," Storr finally said.

"Tell that pilot to hurry up!"

* * *

When Dib finally looked up, he saw most of his team lying on the concrete floor. Copeland was already tending to Daugherty and Heston, who'd been nearest to the blasts, their helmets scorched, shrapnel jutting from all over their scorched suits. Noboru and Pak were assisting him, but they too looked dazed, covered in shrapnel, some of which had clearly penetrated the more vulnerable sections of their suits.

"Dib, I'll stay down here with them," Said Lakota. "That was her, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," Dib gasped.

"Then you have to go after her. We'll link up with Schleck and Volker."

He nodded, "Tuvia, she's coming your way! Three trucks!"

"I know, I know," Cried Tuvia. "But here comes the chopper!"

Even as he spoke, Dib heard the powerful whomping in the background. The gunfire. Explosions. Screams.

"Lakota, Copeland will stay with them. You come with me."

She shrugged.

"I need you with me."

"We're hurting, Dib. We're hurting real bad. I don't know if there's anything else we can do."

"There's one thing," He said. "We can try. Not give up. Not yet. Come on."

They sprinted through the lingering smoke, rounded the next corner, then raced through the next leg of the tunnel, heading up to the deepest level of the garage. Somewhere above came the hum of idling engines. Lakota slowed, stopped, then rasied a finger to the ceiling. "Listen. They've stopped."

He did. Nodded. Then urged her on, just as Tuvia's voice broke over the channel. "My men are dying out here, Dib! We have to pull out. Here come the trucks. They're coming now!"

Dib tensed and picked up the pace. This was it. He was going to lose her. Again.

(End Chapter)


	26. Chapter 25

"Honor is simply the morality of superior men." - H.L. Mencken

* * *

Chapter Twenty Five

**Silver Tower**

**Business District, Dubai **

Fires raged through the ground floor windows of the building where the Prokofiev operators had holed up. Those pathetic dolts thought they had a perfect firing line on the Silver Tower's remaining exit, but the Enforcers Corps chopper and its gunner had routinely ruined their plans.

Now Storr, still at the wheel of the lead truck, hit the gas, and The Empress followed him. They bounced over the concrete curbing, left the garage, and rumbled onto the street, with the chopper still hovering above.

Within two minutes they were headed southwest along the desolate highway, bound for Mina Jebal Ali, guided by night vision and, well, to be blunt, vengeance and greed. Patti contacted her over the suit's radio and said that their ship, the NYK Line's _Leo Leader _out of Panama was pulling into the dock and would be ready within a few minutes to receive them.

"How did the Americans get here? By land? Or by sea... If there's an American ship in the air, this could be all for nothing. Do you understand?"

"Jul, there's no need to remind me of that again."

"Well, if you haven't taken care of that, then I can't promise you anything."

"I understand. And _you _should understand that linking up with Storr was beyond foolish."

"You gave me no choice. Prokofiev couldn't stop them. Vympel couldn't stop them. So I earned his trust by killing the Chinese. Are you happy?"

"What will you do with the Irken now?"

She took a deep breath. "I'm not sure."

* * *

The Tigr was parked just behind a pile of concrete rubble on the north side of the tower. The vehicle's doors were open, a few Prokofiev operators lay around the vehicle, more than likely gunned down by Irkens as they attempted a dismount. Tuvia turned over the car to Dib and Lakota. He was going back into the tower to find his cousin, who was with Schleck and Volker. The rest of Tuvia's men had sought cover in the Almas Tower, but ironically, the chopper had broken off to escort the telecom trucks. Tuvia said the convoy was heading south down Sheikh Zayed Road.

Dib took the wheel, with Lakota at his side. He checked the gauges. Half a tank of gas. More than enough. They had to assume The Empress was meeting someone. The farther south she drove, the stronger the radioactive fallout became. She might be moving the gold out of Abu Dhabi, but probably not much farther south than that.

"Dib, I just got a call from my men at the airport," Said Tuvia over the radio. "They've been putting some fire on that cargo plane, but one of the choppers is keeping them pinned down. My transports have an armored column of T-99's and 9K22's inbound."

"See if you can drop those tanks in to disrupt the DMOV convoy. Get those anti air guns at the airport and in the city. That's about all we can hope for now. I'm thinking the gold is with the DMOVs."

"Okay, Dib."

He turned onto the highway and put the pedal to the metal. One headlight was out, and the engine wailed against the coaxing. He turned off that headlight and used the suit's night vision.

"Ghostex Lead, this is Copeland," Called the team's medic. "Heston and Daugherty are stable but took some serious shrapnel hits. The suits administrated pain meds before I could do anything. Heston's fuel cell is out, damaged by the grenades, and Daugherty's is shot, too. We need to evac a-sap."

Copeland's camera view filled a window in Dib's HUD, and he glimpsed his men sitting up against the tunnel wall, both grimacing.

"All right, hold position till I can get you out of there. Noboru? Pak? Go back for Riggs and Schoolie."

There were few jobs more grim than retrieving the bodies of your fallen Comrades.

He tossed a look at Lakota. "There's just the two of us, some small arms, and a few grenades. How do we stop a convoy of trucks with a big lead?"

"Somebody told me you drove Corvettes when you were younger."

"Maybe."

"Then just drive, baby, drive!"

He drove his foot deeper into the pedal.

"That's nice!" She cried.

Dib flicked his gaze to the right, saw Torque's door just a few feet away, both Corvettes neck and neck now, their Borla exhaust systems thundering as they raced up the four lane road.

He blinked again and saw Lakota. She looked at him.

"Don't worry. I'll make sure we take out those trucks. She doesn't get away this time. Not this time." Her voice did not falter, and he knew she would keep her promise or die trying.

The telecom trucks were running with lights out, so it took both Dib's night vision and zoom lens to finally glimpse them in the distance, range 2.23 kilometers and falling fast.

"I can't get this piece of crap to go any faster."

"It's no Corvette. It's an armored beast."

He snorted. "Yeah."

"Whoa. Hold," She said. "We don't have to catch them." She spoke rapidly to someone else on the other channel, her voice muted by the helmet.

He tensed. "What?"

"You know the old saying, if it becomes a sensor it has to talk to all of us?"

"Yeah, yeah, that thing about situational awareness, but what's that have to do with-"

"Tuvia's sending stuff to me since he know's you're driving. He's regained temporary contact with _Chesma_. Ikashanko says he's talking to Fleet Admiral Ziebrov, passed on word of what's happening. _Chesma's _just launched a jet powered Pchela-1T from her top side launch unit. Drone's in the air now. Check it out."

A window opened in the upper right hand corner of Dib's display to stream video from the unmanned reconnaissance drone as it arced high over the road. He spotted their Tigr and the three trucks gliding like blips in a video game display across the dark road. The drone's camera panned right and focused on a long series of docks. A flashing red label appeared with the words _Mina Jebel Ali, _in Russian.

After a pause, a second glowing label IDed her as the _Leo Leader_, a hulking blue cargo vessel with a huge bay entrance constructed at her stern. Ramps were just now lowering so that The Empress could drive her trucks directly into the hold without stopping.

"All right, I'm confused," Dib confessed. "She might be heading to the dock, but is she taking the trucks because it's just faster?"

"No, because she's also got the gold," Finished Lakota. "And the DMOVs are just a decoy. We assumed the gold was in the better defended vehicles, and we played right into her hand."

"She's crazy."

"And so are we."

"Ghostex Lead, this is Partisan's Pride, up top at nine thousand feet, over."

A new window in Dib's HUD showed a rotating file image of a Russian An-225 Mriya that was operating out of the _Stas_ in the Indian Ocean. The image switched to the pilot, who wore a heavy pilot's helmet, breathing mask over his mouth, large, dark single lens covering the remainder of his face, topped off with a large metal monocle over where his right eye would be.

A bar below him indicated that his aircraft was equipped with a two prototype PS/VAL-2 laser cannons attached to the belly and the nose cone of the massive cargo plane. The 225's chemical oxygen iodine laser was primarily an air to air missile defense weapon, but according to the Russian intel, the VAL-2 had recently been modified to take out ground targets.

Two smaller windows opened on Dib's HUD screen to show the 225's escort: four of carrier based Su-47s operating from the _Joseph V. Stalin _Carrier Strike Group.

Dib could barely contain his excitement.

He'd already resigned himself to losing her, but now he had a real chance, with good intel. God bless the Russians.

"Partisan's Pride, this is Ghostex Lead," He began, trying to calm down. "I need a strike on those three telecom trucks observed via air drone. If you can take out the engines with minimal collateral damage, the beers are on me. I'd like to take my target alive. Also, I've got a cargo plane at the airport. I've got anti air on the way, but I'm not certain if they'll make it on time. Need that taken out, too, if it's not too much trouble."

"Roger, Ghostex Lead. We have your ground targets. Vodka is more preferred. Stand by..."

Dib switched channels. "Tuvia, can you get me some people out here? We're going to stop the trucks, but I need help! Pick up my guys at the Silver, then come out!"

"I'll call my men from the Almas, but we only have two Tigrs left here. I can call some more from the north."

"Do it!"

"I will, Dib. And good news. My cousin is okay."

Dib sighed. The Empress could have killed the boy. He doubted she had a soft side. She'd left him alive because that benefited her in some way- but how?

* * *

The stench of fuel and burning rubber filled the truck's cabin, and the temperature grew unbearably hot for a moment before the engine began to cough and protest. The Empress didn't notice the basketball sized hole in the hood until smoke began wafting from it.

Storr's truck pulled over to the side of the road, followed by the second truck, and then The Empress joined them, the engine finally dying altogether.

She was aghast as she climbed out of the truck, glanced at the sky, then got on the radio to Patti. "You told me you jammed their uplinks here."

"That's correct."

"Well, they've taken us out with a laser, melted right through the engine blocks. The gold is sitting here. Either you come and pick me up, or it's over. I still have the oil reserve data. Time to cut your losses, you hear me?"

"We need that gold, too."

"Get me out, or I'm walking right now!" She screamed.

Storr ran over to her. "What now? You want us to carry the gold to the ship?"

Several of the Elite troops slid open the rear doors and hopped down from the truck. They ran ahead of Storr and The Empress, then began pointing down the road. One whirled back. "Vehicle coming. Looks Russian." He said in Irken.

"I've called for a pickup," Said The Empress.

"I'm sure you have." Storr turned away from her and began speaking in French to the chopper pilot. He finished, looked at her, smiled weakly, then began speaking to someone else in German.

Meanwhile, the European chopper broke away, wheeled around, and headed north toward the oncoming vehicle.

* * *

"Okay, so there's a gunship," Said Lakota calmly. "Any thoughts?"

"Not really."

"So we just drive right at him?"

Dib squinted. "His rocket pods look empty."

"But his cannons aren't."

"Yeah, you're probably right."

Lakota's voice grew more tense. "Lieutenant..."

"Relax. I got this."

Dib took a long breath. She couldn't hear or see what he did on the closed strategic channel. The 225 pilot had cut loose two of his escorts, and the Su-47s were both en route, with the lead jet already locked on to the European gunship.

The pilot stoically reported that one of his air to air missiles were away.

A shooting star wiped across the sky and descended toward the gunship.

Dib's heart beat once. Twice.

He gasped.

The missile struck the gunship top down, and the chopper disintegrated into a fireball that lit up the entire highway. Flaming debris shot from the flames and spread like fireworks to cast a deep glow over the Tigr's hood.

Dib veered to the left as a jagged piece of fuselage slammed down on the hood and shattered the windshield. Then he rolled hard right, tires screeching, as the fiery hunk of metal sent flames billowing toward his helmet.

* * *

The Empress stood, aghast. Their air defense had just been blown from the sky, and all she could do was breathe. For just a second, she closed her eyes and told herself no, she wasn't ready to surrender. Not yet.

A blast of air nearly knocked her to the ground.

Suddenly, a pair of jets came swooping down, banked hard, then slowed and turned on their axes as vectoring nozzles switched directions, pointing downward. She'd studied these jets, Su-47s, but she didn't know that these things could switch into VTOL craft. Both hovered now like choppers, and their pilots cut loose with internal cannon fire, rounds ripping and sparking across the road, sending all of them diving for cover behind the trucks.

The Elites began to return fire with their plasma rifles, but Storr hollered for them to keep down. The jets descended even more, and the cannon fire grew unbearable, shredding through the trucks, the gold, a few of the rounds caught the Elites and sent them into the air, the rounds ripping through them and taking limbs along with large chunks of body and armor.

She grabbed Storr by the arm and ran toward the embankment, exploiting several feet of cover below the road. The Elites were screaming, dying up there in the hell storm of unrelenting salvos as their brothers were torn apart by autocannon rounds.

"This is it, Storr," She said. "I guess this is it."

"Did you think I would come here with no backup plan myself?" He asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Wait. Look..."

"What am I looking at?"

"A favor from your old friend Chieftain Major General Tak, who would like to see you more than ever- and I've promised that meeting. And so now we are saved."

"I thought we had a deal."

"Unfortunately, your contacts let you down. Mine won't. You'll be coming back to Irk, to Vasclorein City, with me."

He'd barely finished his sentence when both jets blew apart in successive bursts. Wings, cockpit canopies, and landing gear appeared through swelling fires and tumbled end over end to crash down and scrape across the highway. A wedge shaped piece of fuselage crashed into the telecom trucks, knocking two on their sides and tearing them open. Bricks of gold tumbled out and glittered in the flames, and The Empress hit the dirt as more bricks thumped to the ground around her.

She reached down, grabbed one bar, and cursed at the top of her lungs.

* * *

Six Irken Empire Spittle Runners thundered overhead had as he approached the shattered telecom trucks.

At the same time, a pair of Irken Air Reapers accompanied by another pair of Steel Slicers streaked above them, and Dib immediately assumed they been responsible for taking out those Su-47s.

As he and Lakota bounded out of the Tigr, a wave of plasma fire from somewhere behind the trucks sent them down on their bellies, and not a second later, a plasma grenade exploded on Lakota's side of the armored vehicle.

He screamed for her. No answer.

Feeling as though he'd been hit by ten thousand volts, Dib bounded around the Tigr and dropped down beside Lakota, who was lying facedown near the wheel. Razor sharp pieces of shrapnel had peppered one side of her suit. He rolled her over, and her eyes slowly flickered open. "Don't let her get away..."

His HUD showed her vital sign and that the suit had already hit her with painkillers.

Dib nodded, looked up, and saw that the Irken Spittle runners were just now coming around to escort a single Voot Cruiser.

And then, from the embankment, he saw two figures dash forward, away from the trucks.

Dib charged after them, and they didn't notice his approach as the propulsion systems wash shipped across the road.

He leveled his rifle on the taller one and cut loose a triplet of rounds that punched the guy onto his back; however, the rounds failed to penetrate his armor. He was only stunned.

The smaller figure swung back to face him.

It was her.

And she fired into his chest- one, two, three rounds- even as he threw himself into the air and knocked her to the ground. He dropped his rifle and pinned her arms with his knees, and his gloved hands fumbled for the latch on her helmet. He found it, threw it back, and, as she fought to squirm free, twisted off her helmet and tossed it away.

He wrapped his gloved hands around her neck and began to squeeze as he choked her. "Do you know how long I've been looking for you!?" he screamed in English, knowing she understood him.

"I don't care," She said, groaning in exertion.

With a sudden jerk she rolled, driving her legs up and over his head, boots slamming into his helmet. The power in her legs was remarkable, and she tore him free, forcing his head back with both her ankles. He lost his grip on her throat and fell away, reaching out to his right for his rifle.

"Ghostex Lead, this is Partisans Pride, second squadron of Sukoi's inbound. They will have missile range in two minutes, over!"

He couldn't answer the pilot.

And if he could just delay her for two minutes...

Dib sat up- in time to watch The Empress's boot connect with his helmet, knocking him back down.

He rolled, tried to sit up again, but she stood over him now, aiming her pistol at his head.

"Who are you?" She demanded, her antennae whipping in the propulsion wash as the Voot Cruiser landed, with Irken Elites thumping out side the door gunner, who swung his HPC around in Dib's direction.

The first guy Dib had shot was staggering to his feet and screaming in Irken, waving for The Empress to follow him.

Was that Storr?

Ignoring him, she yelled once more for Dib to ID himself.

The weird light in her eyes told him enough. If he kept pushing her buttons, he'd buy more time. "You don't give me order, little girl."

Voices in his ear now: "Dib, it's Tuvia! We're on our way! Almost there!"

"Ghostex Lead, this is Partisans Pride, one minute... Stand by..."

The Empress leaned toward him, aiming at his neck. "I can shoot you right here, and you'll die."

"Kill me. Kill me right here, right now! I'm not afraid to die!"

"Jul!" Screamed the other man. That had to be Storr!

The Irken Elites were running forward now, about to surround them.

Dib stole a look back at Lakota, who was now lying on her side, clutching her rifle, and staring vaguely at him.

Then he glanced back up the road, where in the distance he saw two vehicles, Tigrs, the rest of his team along with Tuvia and some of his own team members. The Irken Spittle Runners had fanned out, and two were turning toward the oncoming vehicles.

Dib wanted to call off Tuvia and his people, but it was already too late."

Lakota began firing at the oncoming Elites, who dropped and returned fire.

At that moment, The Empress leaned down and began to jab her gun into his neck.

Dib grabbed her arm as the pistol went off.

And then he pulled her down toward him with all his might. She lost her balance and fell. Just as he moved to climb back on top of her, plasma fire hammered across his back, and then it came, the sharp, steady pain.

He gasped and fell over, onto his side, as The Empress was pulled away by the other Irken, who Dib confirmed was now Storr.

He was working for her?

Lakota fired again, and strangely, the Elites retreated without returning fire, even as Lakota continued to squeeze the trigger.

Rockets ignited from above and streaked away from the Irken Runners. Dib turned his head to watch as his people bailed out of the troop compartment of the Tigr, only seconds before the rockets struck. Twin explosions of blue swelled into summits of plasma, and the screams from his men over the team channel were awful and unbearable. The Tigr assumedly carrying Tuvia turned around and headed back in retreat, Dib could hear Tuvia yelling over the channel in Russian for his driver to stop.

"Ghostex Lead, this is Partisans Pride, thirty seconds..."

_You're too late,_ Dib wanted to tell him, but a wave of dizziness was taking hold, the ground listing to the left as though he were on a boat.

He knew if he stared hard enough at those flames in the distance he'd see Torque, shaking his head in disappointment.

"Ghostex Lead, Sukoi's on station. Lock in five, four, three, two..."

* * *

The Empress glanced back once more at the soldier who'd attacked her. It had been years since she'd encountered a man so fiery eyed and determined. he seemed obsessed with her, and she took that as a true compliment. She thought of ordering the Elites to grab him, capture him, but she wouldn't explain why she would issue such an order.

She was about to climb into the Voot Cruiser, but was halted by a tall Irken wearing a set of ACUPAT fatigues, tan shirt under with matching combat boots.

"Zim?" The Empress expressed heavy shock in her tone. "What are you wearing? Why are you here?"

She turned to Storr, who presented an IR American flag patch.

She turned back to Zim, who now had a large human side arm aimed at her chest, an IMI Desert Eagle Mk. XIX .50 that would punch right through her.

"I'm sorry, Jul," Zim said, his large ruby eyes brimming with tears as he pulled the trigger.

The Empress gasped as the .50 caliber action express round fired from Zim's side arm ripped through her chest, the sound of metal on metal clanged, the round exiting out her PAK as it exploded, components and steel ripping away from it and falling to the concrete below. She began to fall backward, and Storr caught her, gently lying her down as Zim hopped down from the Voot Cruisers rear ramp, Elites standing in a circle, watching.

Zim reached Jul and knelt down beside her, taking her hand in his own. His face grew tense with sorrow. "I'm sorry." He said again as he raised the side arm and put it to her temple.

"Zim..." She said in a weak voice. "I am too." The tears now forming in her turquoise eyes.

Zim ordered Storr and to contact the Russians and have them pick up Dib and his team immediately, just before he closed his eyes, turned away, held his breath, and pulled the trigger.

And Jul's grasp in his hand grew limp.

(End Chapter)


	27. Epilogue

"For others, their family would be the only people they bled beside. There were no bands, no flags, no Honor Guards to welcome us home. We went to war because our country ordered us to. But in the end, we fought not for our country, our flag, or even our species survival. We fought for each other." - Lieutenant Dib Membrane

* * *

Epilogue

**Sheikh Zayed Road**

**Near Mina Jebel Ali**

**Two Hours Later **

A Battalion sized force of Russians had flown in from the _Joseph V. Stalin _Carrier Strike Group, and Dib had already been examined by the medics. He was about to be airlifted back to the ship when Tuvia shifted forward with his cousin. "Dib, I'd like you to meet Sheikh Hussein Al Maktoum. The ruler of Dubai."

The boy, who was still wearing an environment suit identical to The Empress's, the boy extended his hand. Dib took it. "Thank you, sir, for recovering the gold and helping my country."

"You're welcome. I do wish we could have saved her PAK though." He glanced up at Tuvia. "Any word yet?"

Tuvia shook his head. "Zim and his team already dissembled what's left of it. Memory and uplink are shocked."

The boy released Dib's hand. "Lieutenant, if there is anything I can ever do for you?"

Dib took a long breath. "Hold that thought. I may come looking for a favor sooner than later."

Hussein nodded. "Anything you need. Just let me know."

Two crew members from the Super Hind lifted Dib's long backboard and carried him away. One of them he knew, the door gunner that mounted the GAU-19/A on the same chopper that brought them to the hovercraft over the strait was carrying the end of Dib's feet. Dib made a request to the gunner, who smiled, and obliged, placing him beside Lakota in the gunship's cramped bay. He reached over, took her hand, then raised his voice over the droning engines. "You did good, kid."

She sighed. "You, too!"

He raised his head and spotted Volker and Schleck seated across from him. They were ragged, red eyed, exhausted.

He took a deep breath. The rest of his team who'd been riding in the Tigr were coming home in body bags. He closed his eyes and braced himself.

The guilt burned.

And burned... And burned...

* * *

**Moscow**

**"Badgers Den"**

**Four Days Later **

"Red Star Station, this is Badgers Den, do you read, over?"

"Red Star Station receiving your end Badgers Den, over."

"Doctor Belinski, I want a status update on the VIL emitter, is it operational?"

"Da, you have nothing to worry about Tuvia, the Einstein Rosen Bridge will be opened the moment Fleet Admiral Ziebrov and Air Marshal Vorobei give the final word."

"Good. Chieftain Commander Borchinko already has his forces onboard the carriers from the _Joseph V. Stalin _Carrier Strike Group. This is a prestigious moment for the Russian people Yuri," Tuvia turned his attention to another screen as an alert and a faint beeping sound notified him. "I'll get back to you Red Star, I have to take this."

"Copy Badgers Den, Red Star out."

Tuvia cut the line to Red Star, located on the Earth's moon, and braced himself to take the next call as he walked over to the next monitor in his control and command center. He straightened out his visor hat and laid two flat palms on his chest and brought them down to his abdomen to straighten out his uniform. He opened the link as he took the call, and an image of a middle aged Russian man in a black suit appeared on screen, Tuvia saluted, "President Harkov, sir."

"At ease, Commander." The President said in a monotone manor.

Tuvia lowered his right hand from the brim of his visor and clasped his hands behind his back, letting his posture slack ever so slightly. "Mister President, sir, I'm sure you're aware of the preparations, Red Star has informed me that the VIL emitter device is fully operational. We're just waiting on FLEETCOM and High Command to commence operations. Of course, before that, we need your go ahead." Tuvia spat the words out at a thousand words per second, fearing the president would make him swallow his own tongue if he screwed up.

"Excellent, Commander," The president stood up from his office chair with a smile on his face. "I'm happy I've placed my faith in you Commander, but I have one question, how do you know we're not sending our men out there to die? The Irken Armada could be fortifying-"

"That won't be a problem, sir. The Irken Armada has yet a way to go, and without warp tech or anything to speed up the process of retreat, they've left their home world vulnerable to attack with a small defense force, small enough for our air fleets to decimate them and get our boots on the ground."

"And how do you know where we're sending our air fleets?"

"During the Irken occupation of the Russian land, we've sent data retrieval units to strategic Irken facilities such as communications relays. I would know sir, I was one of those data retrieval units, and I know for a fact that through all the data retrieved, we've obtained universal coordinates, including the coordinates to the Irken home world, Irk. And Vasclorein City is the source of the Irken intelligence, these... _Control Brains_, somewhere under ground. If we can get there, then we can stop the Irken Empire from ever returning to Earth."

The Russian president clasped his own hands behind his back, as he stared at the hardwood floor beneath him and nodded his head. The tension could have grabbed Tuvia by the neck and choked him. The president was hesitating, Tuvia feared he was going to call off the retaliation force.

"Sir, all due respect," Tuvia began, jarring the president from his thoughts. "This is inevitable. Our massive preparations have gone on for far too long for us to simply stand down. We're a coiled spring, ready to throw ourselves into the fray, the Irken Empire needs to pay for what they did to us. Not only the Russian people, not only the people of Earth, but they need to pay for what they've done to the people of the universe. We're just waiting for one word: attack."

"Commander-"

"Sir, I know war as much as any veteran on the field, or any other General, I know how bad it can be. How destructive and destabilizing it can be. But this is something we have to do... Nyet, this is something we _need _to do. It would greatly benefit all species if the Irken Empire was dealt with, it would free entire planets from their oppression."

"Commander," The president slowly walked back to his office chair. Tuvia half choked, once again feeling the tension grab him by the neck. The president sighed before looking to the camera streaming to Tuvia's computer. "You didn't give me a chance to finish. Indeed things like this have to be thought over, and indeed sometimes commanders need to question higher command such as myself, but in the end, it is the people who make the decisions."

Tuvia's heart sank. He knew people making the decision would take far too long, and by the time the people made up their damned minds, the Irken Armada would have been geared up and ready for another planetary invasion. The Russian forces would be stuck on Earth defending, and they'd miss their window.

"But I'm sure the people would agree with your argument. I'll inform Fleet Admiral Ziebrov. Make sure you're on the _Chesma _in two hours Commander, I want Red Star to open the bridge within one. The orders will be given to Chief Air Marshal Zelinsk, they will be relayed to Air Marshal Vorobei, and so on down the ladder until they reach you and your unit. Good lock, Commander."

The president cut the line and left Tuvia standing in the dark. In shock. In excitement. The adrenaline rushing through Tuvia's body was uncontrollable and made him feel as if he could blast through the steel roof of his control center like supper man.

Indeed, this was a prestigious moment for the Russian people.

* * *

**The Liberator Sports Bar and Grill**

**Near Fort Bragg, North Carolina **

**Two Weeks Later **

It was about 5:00PM, and Dib sat alone in his usual corner booth. He'd been released from the hospital the day before. They'd kept him a bit longer than Lakota to perform a second surgery and had finally removed a piece of shrapnel that had been lodged in his back. He was scheduled to meet with a Colonel Petrov tomorrow afternoon, the mention of a former Major Tuvia, now a Commander, was the only thing that motivated him to go.

Tristan Volker had been nursing a beer at the bar and finally came over to sit across from Dib. "Didn't see you here."

"And you call yourself a spy?"

Volker grinned. "Half assed. My brother would tell you."

"Naw, you're top notch. What you did for me was harder than anything your brother ever did."

"I doubt it."

"Did your brother ever finish a mission, knowing that he'd just lost you?"

Volker thought about that and shook his head.

"Point made."

Volker sighed, sipped his beer, then said, "It's okay that you lied about Storr being in Dubai. I know why you did it, but you didn't have to worry. Storr got his anyway, huh?"

"Yeah, and I'm sorry about that."

"Like I said, it's all right. The bastard's dead."

Despite tipping off Zim who was now working for the US Military, Zim had been instructed to deactivate Storr and destroy his PAK.

Schleck arrived in the doorway and caught Dib's gaze. The lanky sniper steered himself over and took a seat. "Who do I kill to get a beer?"

Dib shook Schlecks hand. "Hey man, thanks for coming."

"Are you kidding?" Schleck drew his head back, dumbfounded, then wiggled his brows at the waitress and ordered his beer.

"Where's Lakota?" Asked Volker.

"On her way, said she had something to show me," Said Dib. "Oh, there she is now."

He rose and rushed to the front of the door, holding it open for her as she walked in, leaning most of her weight on a man's arm dressed in a pure black uniform with a matching black visor hat. The visor had golden leaves wrapping around the front and met in the middle, the gold cord just under the golden cockade that Dib had never seen before. Around the mans waist was a gold belt that rested above the two center gold buttons out of the six on his jacket. His black shoulder boards donned five gold stars over a single gold strip, his chest lined with roughly seven medals. The man stood about six foot two, he extended his hand, and Dib took it.

"Hi Dib," The man spoke through a grin in an all to familiar voice that Dib reeled back from, withdrawing his hand from the shake.

"Zim?" Dib cried. "What the hell? They let you go?"

Zim laughed at Dib's surprise. "They let me keep my illegally obtained citizenship. Don't worry, I'm not here to cause any trouble."

Dib, Lakota and Zim walked over to the table, and Zim helped Lakota to her seat beside Dib, Zim sat opposite of Dib, beside Schleck and Tristan.

Once they'd dispensed with pleasantries and each had a beer, Zim included, Dib got down to the business at hand: lifting their glasses to fallen comrades. His voice cracked. But that was okay. The beer was cold, the sentiments honest. Nothing else mattered.

After an hour, Schleck and Volker bid their good byes and good lucks.

Zim paused a moment and dragged Dib to the side, leaving Lakota seated at the table by herself. "Dib, I just wanted to say that..." Zim paused, trying to find some kind of words.

Dib crossed his arms over his chest and lifted a brow, waiting for Zim to complete his sentence.

"I want to say that I'm sorry for all the pain I caused you." Zim finished.

The words coming from Zim took Dib a back a moment. Dib searched Zim's voice and tone, and he knew, that the alien was being as sincere as he possibly could. Then, to even his own surprise, Dib smiled as he rested a hand on Zim's shoulder, "It's alright." Dib said through an almost whisper, almost losing his voice. "You're alright." Dib said before patting Zim on the back, and before long, Zim had said goodbye and was on his way to exit the bar.

Dib returned to the table and took a seat beside Lakota. "You still want to hand out with an old warhorse?" He asked Lakota.

"If you think you're getting off cheap with just beer, think again, mister. I want dinner and a movie."

"At my pay grade?"

"Yeah. And Dib, you're not an old warhorse."

He snorted, glanced away at the thought. "You know, I never meant to do any of this."

"What're you talking about?"

"Truth is, I joined the military because I thought I could take another guy's place. I thought I could exact revenge on Zim. I thought live his life and make things right. I thought I could also get back at Zim for the torment he's caused me in my childhood years and service years. So everything I've done was to try to say I'm sorry, and I wanted to put my self at ease knowing I got rid of Zim. But it doesn't matter. No one really cares. And I have to convince myself that my life wasn't his but mine. I'm the soldier, not him. I didn't live his life. I lived my own."

"That's right."

"Yeah, I can talk the talk, but the walk is..."

"Maybe it's easier if i take your hand." She reached across the table.

He grinned. "Doesn't feel any different. Maybe if you take off your clothes."

She frowned. "Pig!"

He burst out laughing. "Come on, let's go see that movie. We'll get a late dinner. You mind driving? My car's still at the impound."

As Dib rose, his cell phone rang. Unidentified caller. "Hello?"

"Lieutenant Dib? This is Colonel Dmitri Orlovski, General Pennell advised me to call you immediately with news."

Dib took a deep breath and answered, "Colonel, what can I do for you?"

"I just got off a long range communication call with Commander Tuvia. He's in the process of pushing into the Irken capital, but there's an unidentified force, invasion sized force, moving onto the other side of the planet. He's concerned."

"I understand, sir."

"The Commander has asked me to appoint your Special Forces team linked to his own unit. In addition, you'd be working with regular Russian ground forces as well as other Special Forces units, including Prokofiev Delta and GRU Vympel. Interested?"

Dib took a deep breath. You could almost hear the influence through both Tuvia and Hussein through the Colonel's report- but that didn't matter.

"Sir, I'm interested, and I'd like the opportunity to handpick my own operators, with both yours and the General's endorsement, of course."

"You want Schleck, Volker, and Lakota to start..."

"Well, sir, that would enable me to-"

"You've got them. Just get me a list before the end of the day. We'll have you all on Red Star Station and though the Einstein Rosen Bridge by the weekend."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"We'll be in touch, _Captain._"

"Yes, sir." Dib thumbed off the phone.

Dib's life was about to change again, only this time the change would _not _be marked by swelling clouds of smoke and fire.

It would be marked by something very different.

He leaned over and took Lakota into his arms. Without hesitation, he gave her the longest, hottest kiss he could muster. As she hugged him even tighter, he ignored the cheers and applause from his colleagues, surrendering himself to her grasp.

When they finally came up for air, she looked at him and whispered. "To hell with the movie. Take me home."

* * *

"They've ravaged this world, crushed our homes, and destroyed countless lives. The atrocities they've committed against the universal peace, and mankind, are inherent and unforgivable on all accounts, and demand swift, sovereign justice, that the Russian people shall deliver. We will send our forces to the Irken home world, via an Einstein Rosen Bridge, and the Irken people, and all it's evil, shall cease to exist." - Russian Military Spokesman

(End Story)


End file.
